Life of Alageisianus
by awilla the hun
Summary: It was in the reign of the Emperor Trajan that a Roman Legion, of no especial distinction, managed to find itself in a realm of magic and dragons. Rated T because stuff happens. Read and review! Now with extra Canon Characters!
1. Prologue

(Disclaimer: I own nothing copyright or legal related.)

Every story that deals with Rome at some point must include something about naming, so this will be no exception.

Lets say that we have a Roman called, I don't know, Gaius Julius Caesar. (I wonder where these ideas come from?)

His first name, the _Praenomen_-"Gaius"-is only used by intimate friends and family. (So people do not go up to him in the street and call him "Gaius".)

His middle name, the _Nomen_-"Julius"-is his clan name, and also his family name. However, there are also going to be many other Julii out there who are as closely related to him as a Macdonald is going to be to another Macdonald in Scotland.

Finally, we have the _Cognomen_, the nicknames. These are used to distinguish between people with similar names. In this case it is "Caesar" (translated as "good head of hair".)

More nicknames (_agnomen_) may be added later, due to achievements (so there is a Roman general reveling in the name of Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus, due to his bravery in Africa against Hannibal.) Confusingly, these may be taken up as family names later on, so there was (for example) a considerable political clan known as the Metelli, all of whom shared the Cognomen "Metellus" ("reformed mercenary"), but had to earn later agnomen so as to distinguish themselves. Not all of them did, the result being that the famous Gaius Julius Caesar had a respectable but undistinguished father and grandfather, both called Gaius Julius Caesar.

As for women; if you're expecting a similarly spectacular series of names, you're going to be disappointed. Female names were taken from the _Nomen_ of their fathers (so a Gaius Julius Caesar is going to have daughters called Julia.) To distinguish them, they were often called Big Julia or Little Julia, or something similar. This emphasizes how girls, more or less, were expected to be the property of their fathers.

Speaking of human property, we finally come to slaves. These were given their owner's _Praenomen_ with "por" (boy) added on. (So, if Gaius Julius Caesar was to pop down to market and buy a Scythian runabout to pick up the kids from school, or whatever, he would call the slave Gaipor.) Later on, slaves were often given Greek names, followed by the master's own name in a certain form. ((However, I am uncertain on this; I have looked at two websites for slave names, each coming up with different ideas.))

Now that that's over and done with, just a few things to say. Firstly, I hope you enjoy this little offering. (A few months ago, I saw a story featuring the US Navy from the Second World War showing up. This idea presumably stuck with me for quite a while, and slowly grew.) Secondly, all historical inaccuracies are my fault entirely. (Apart from the slave name business.) Thirdly, whilst there were indeed Dacian Wars fought in 101-102 AD, and 105-106 AD, and the Romans were led by the Emperor Trajan (who did indeed commission the construction of a massive stone bridge over the River Danube to assist the troops-parts of it still stand), the XXIII Adiutrix Legion, and all the characters involved, are fictional.

And so: on with the show!

* * *

"_If you, Verres, had been made a prisoner in Persia or the remotest part of India, and were being dragged off to execution, what cry would you be uttering (in defence), except that you were a Roman citizen?" Cicero, Against Verres_

The Third year of the reign of the Emperor Trajan, 854 years since the Founding of Rome (101 AD)

The XXIII Adiutrix, third of its name, was marching to a war.

And a bridge.

"It's colossal, they say," said Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher, the Tribunus Laticlavus. He removed his massively plumed Attic helmet yet again, to run a hand through his hair. Ye gods, but Dacia was hot, even in the evening, when he thought it would have had the decency to cool down a bit. "Quite colossal," he added, reaching into his saddlebags for a canteen.

Legate Publius Cassius Flaccus bestowed a withering look upon his head military tribune. "Who, Gnaeus Aurelius," he asked, "is they?" His black stallion, Bucephalus, stepped elegantly over a pothole. Flaccus cursed as a branch brushed across his greying brown hair, and he immediately started to brush his quiff-he knew that Alexander himself had worn one-back into shape. "Who is this they?" he asked again. "Do tell."

"Well," Pulcher began, as the entire staff of the XXIII braced themselves for one of his magnificently longwinded explanations, "it all began one night in Rome…"

Pulcher was a young looking man, of good family, and senatorial class, whose proudest boast was to have learned Pliny's _Natural History_ and Homer's _Illiad_ off by heart. These were not as such perfect for a military life, which was fine by him; Pulcher (who lived up to his nicknames as both "fortunate" and "pretty"-despite his thirty one years, his face was entirely free of wrinkles, and his red hair free of grey) was not believed to have seen the army as his true calling. In the long months of marching, riding, and making camp, he had spent long hours detailing just how he wanted to spend his career.

"First," he had said, wine in cup, leaning against a tent pole, "we shall win a battle-you know, beat up some barbarians or something. Then I will leave, festooned with glory, and will rise through the senate as a great Military Man. Then I will become Consul, and will get supremely rich." He smiled lazily, knowing that a Consul had to do little now save for signaling the start of chariot races. "But for now, of course, I will serve," he usually added. "And serve most dilligentl…" (at this point, he usually fell asleep.)

Flaccus had always known that wine provoked honesty. He also knew that, at least, Pulcher meant well, and generally listened to whatever advice he was given.

The usual dispenser of such advice was Praefectus Castrorum Marcus Thorius Mactator, the "butcher", who was currently about a mile ahead watching the Legion pitching camp. The forest blocked out most of the light, but the Legate and his officers could just about make their Legion out in the clearing at the bottom of the hill. Their troops, 5120 strong, were marching down the road-a goat track more than anything else-and immediately producing Rome's greatest weapon: the entrenching tool.

Two feet of wood. Two blades on the end, one like a pick axe, the other a spade. Any village blacksmith could hammer it together, toss it idly onto a pile, and return to some beautiful piece of armour, or ugly scythe. It would only cost a few sesterces, and hardly seemed like a weapon to topple kingdoms. And yet it was with the dolabra, not the gladius or pila, the sword or javelin, that many of Rome's greatest victories had been won. Flaccus had read every scrap of papyrus about Caesar and Alexander, Marius and Pompey and Xenophon, that he could get his hands on. He had pored over Frontius' _Stratagems_ by candlelight as the Legion had made its slow way up to the Danubius, and knew the power of engineering. Rivers had been turned to drown whole armies; millions of Gauls had been trapped, and butchered; and mighty siege works had been broken free of. All with that queer little axe-spade, and the two wooden stakes every legionary carried on the march. It was unglamorous, and unlikely to win any Crowns, but it won wars all the same.

But now, however, it was being put to good, simple use: pitching camp. Every Legionary, and every officer, could find his way around one blind, for it was built the same way each night. A large, 2100 foot wide rectangle, with ditches and a great palisade, and a little gate in each side, filled with tents lined up in their own neat rectangles, with its own hospital, workshop and granary. Flaccus knew that his slaves, his handful of slaves, were already setting up his own tent. With its little camp chair-such comfort after a long ride-, its little amphora of wine (something decent, he hoped-perhaps an Athenian), the little desk, the little camp bed. Ah…

A wind rustled through the trees, knocking him out of his reverie. He stared up at the green forest canopy above him, hoping for a glimpse of sky. Anything? It had been an exceptionally still day, which had left the sweat dripping off man and officer alike. Flaccus had ridden in an unfortunate limbo; too proud do don a sunhat, too damned hot to go on. Pride, as ever, was prevailing. He saw himself as an Alexander, or a Julius Caesar. He wore his hair in that quiff, even though his body stubbornly refused to mould into heroic form, with those damnable big ears that had earned his Cognomen. He was tall, true, but alarmingly so, and although strong, he remained alarmingly thin. But that wasn't going to stop him, of course. He knew his worth.

"A still day," someone said. Flaccus recognized it as his Primus Pilus, his senior Centurion, Spurius Julius Rufus. "Very hot indeed. That wind had no place here."

"And how would you know that?" Flaccus replied contemptuously. "Did it step up a blow in Rome, when you were sunning yourself on Nerva's lap? Did the Venti and Tempestas club together and unleash mighty gales whilst you lay, belly white and gleaming, loafing around some Bath or other?" Every legionary, from the lowliest Munifex to the highest General (Emperors included, more often than not) learned an immediate and virulent hatred of the Praetorian Guard. Those men guarded the Emperor, and were known as an elite force. Whenever, that is to say, they were reluctantly goaded into battle alongside the Emperor, and occasionally waved their gladii at the foe. Most of the time, they were a bunch of clowns, lounging around in Rome admiring the scenery, eating up their immense pay, and after sixteen years of service (as opposed to the twenty five of the normal legionary) retiring, or grabbing every commission they could suck up in the mere fighting Legions. So it was that, two years ago, Flaccus found himself given-"gifted" was the word on Trajan's letter of introduction-with Spurius Julius Rufus. A bald, old man of fourty years. Why, O Gods, why?

The bald, old man shook his head. "I just know, Publius Cassius," he said. "I just know."

"… so, in the end, I got a chat with the architect- Appollodorus of Damascus, a Greek you know, but far more discreet than they say they are. 'Have to have sex in the dark' indeed! He was covering himself with a sponge when I dragged him out of that bathhouse, girl in tow. But a decent sort when he got into his cups, and told me a few things." Pulcher tapped his nose. "So there. Now, was anyone listening?"

"Very interesting," Flaccus muttered. "Very." And please don't call me Publius Cassius, he wanted to add to Rufus in a spiteful undertone. Friends? Us? But that, of course, was no way for a commanding officer to address his subordinates, especially when his Camp Prefect was stomping up the hill towards them.

No one knew the age of Marcus Thorius Mactator. He had been with the XXIII Adiutrix more or less for as long as anyone could remember. He had been promoted from the ranks, and could not himself remember his own age. This varied in taverns, from the willfully optimistic "twenty five" when addressing whores, to "about sixty" after being rejected. This was not unlikely. A scar cut his heavily bearded face in half, like a rocky valley; and his black hair had almost left him. Worse still for any prospective wives and girlfriends, he had only one hand of flesh and blood with which to caress. His right hand, in the manner of Marcus Sergius, was made of black iron, and resembled more a talon than anything else. He was, in short, as ugly as Tartarus, as charmless as anything, and one of the finest soldiers Flaccus had ever met.

"Something odd," he said, leaning heavily on his cane. "Vewy odd." That was the other thing about him. Whether through wrath of the gods or his own pretension, Mactator spoke with a bizarre lisp.

"What sort of odd, Marcus Thorius?" Flaccus was already reaching for his sword. Odd, when Mactator said it, usually meant dangerous.

"At the camp, Publius Cassius. In a ditch." Mactator was already limping off down the hill, knowing that when he called, the officers followed.

They did.

The 'something odd' had, until recently, been buried at the bottom of a defensive ditch. It was, as per regulations, exactly ten feet deep. Roman engineering, at its best. And a grinning soldier was gripping it in his gloved hands.

"A stone," Flaccus muttered, swinging off his horse. "Bright green." And doubtless worth a fortune, even after the profits were divided up between the legion. "And egg shaped. What is your name, soldier?"

The soldier took a nervous look at the ribbon on Flaccus' breastplate, and saluted. "Sextus Annius Strabo, Third Cohort, of Gaius Petreius Agelastus' century."

The name, now, was familiar. "The cook?" Flaccus asked.

The man grinned. "Indeed." An uproarious barking sounded nearby. "And the owner of the Century's mastiff. May I?"

Flaccus nodded stiffly as Strabo bent down to scratch at a massive British mastiff. "I feeds it, I does. Good lass, good lass. Called Maxima, she is."

"Yes. It stole my door mouse, I believe."

Strabo looked up, all innocence. "Did she? It must have been a while back…"

"Oh, never mind. No matter. Give me the stone, Strabo."

"Yes." Flaccus took his cane from his saddlebags, and poked at it. Nothing strange happened, so he took it in his hands. Nothing. This was not a country the gods had given many gemstones, so it was understandably strange that they should find such a great one. "And pray fetch my secretary. Publipor Tertius."

Strabo's face lit up, for he was excused from digging. He lept to his feet, and dashed off, armour clattering.

Flaccus smiled knowingly. "Spurius Julius; Gnaeus Aurelius. You both, I trust, have seen many jewels in your lives, having lived in Rome. May I ask if you could identify this one?"

The former Praetorian and the young Tribune dismounted, offering their reins to a nearby soldier with practiced assurance. "Singular," Pulcher muttered. "Very singular. If I didn't know better, I would call it a painted Ostrich egg, but…" he studied it all over. "Very good paint," Rufus concluded after a few moments. "There are no ostriches in Dacia, but nothing else springs to mind just now. My apologies."

"Accepted. You will, of course, study it. Marcus Thorius, if you have time, you will find someone else in this legion that is wise about jewels. But think little of it; Jupiter knows more of these things than we do." And some Roman merchant could find out in a flash.

Presently, digging resumed, and Strabo returned ("About time, you Cunnus!" his Centurion barked, tossing him his dolabra), with secretary in tow. Publidor Tertius was one of Flaccus' "Inherited quintuplets", the five slaves he had inherited from his father. He had his wax tablet and stylus already to hand.

"It is a beauty, Master," he muttered, tugging at a lock of black hair caught under his sun hat. He was an Athenian, and proud of it. If ever Flaccus needed a quote of Socrates or Plato (which was rare), he would march purposefully towards his secretary. When Mactator needed some more tools, he would turn to Publicor Tertius for the documents suggesting just where more dolbarae, or stakes, or cement could be found. Most of all, when minutes had to be taken, Publicor Tertius would reveal his main talent: writing in shorthand. He was very much more valuable than he looked, sunburned and scrawny, with his effeminately long hair and warty face. "Shall I sketch it, Master?"

"You shall." The stylus jerked upwards.

"Master…"

"What is it, man? We have a war to run."

"Should we not position it where it was found, Master?"

"Why so?"

"For authenticity, Master."

"Ah, yes. I suppose so. Thank you, my man."

Reverently, Flaccus bent down (thanking the Gods for his flexible Lorica Segmentata), and dropped the stone into the ditch.

"There now," he said, rising to his feet and scrubbing his hands clean. "To work, slave."

_Crack._

Pulcher jumped.

_Crack._

"That was no ostriches egg," Mactator muttered, stomping over to the ditch to look down.

_Crack._

No egg could crack that loudly, and indeed no egg was. The egg remained completely intact, sitting calmly at the bottom of the ditch.

_Crack._

No. It was the earth that was cracking.

"Legion!" Flaccus roared, wondering what to do. "Legion! Legion will…"

_Crack._

Tarturus was unleashed. The camp, with the palisade, and ditches, all those elements of fine Roman engineering and craftsmanship, was coming apart. With a mighty splintering crash, stakes were torn apart. "Get back!" someone cried, and the single cry turned into a chorus of shouts, and orders, and screams, as a great black _rent_ in the ground opened. Another _CRACK_, and men ran, panicking; no barbarians could stop them, but no one could stop mother nature.

"HOLD!" someone was shouting, with a high, cracked voice. "HOLD!"

But Mactator, stumbling away from the crack, had been on more parade grounds. "WETIRE! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THAT!"

The rent grew, and grew, and…

Flaccus' stomach did a strange backflip, as he turned for his horse. Bucephalus was galloping away, off to the woods, squealing foully. "Damn you!" he cried, starting to run after it. "Alexander would never-"

One moment he was running, the next he fell. Flat on his face. He turned dimly, and saw a rabbit hole, with his sandal caught in it, and tried to rise.

More screams. More shouts. An eagle being borne away; an image of Trajan, gripped by its Imaginifier's white knuckled hands, as he himself fell. For the ground was beginning to buckle.

Pulcher, falling, screaming. Rufus, standing with hands behind his back, the true Roman, disdainful sneer across his face, even as men tumbled past him. His fingers, tearing at grass, at roots, at-

Falling-

Darkness.

* * *

Next chapter up tomorrow! Please give any comments you please.

Glossary (if you don't understand anything else, don't hesitate to ask in your review.)

Lorica Segmentata: what people think of as Legionary armour, although it was in fact fairly rare, with mail being more common. (It did, however, look very shiny on parade.) A series of iron plates, held together by leather straps, worn on the torso and shoulders.

Dolbara: Legionary's mattock. (By the way, those battles Flaccus mentions are quite real, although he slightly exaggerates. If you want to know more, ask away!)

Danubius: The River Danube.

Gladius: Legionary's short sword.

Pilum: Legionary's javelin.

Imaginifier: A standard bearer, who bore the image of the Emperor to remind the troops of their loyalty to him. (As opposed to the Aquilifier, who bore the Legion's Aquila-Eagle.)

Immunes: Although not yet a formal rank, there were definite distinctions (such as often being let off duties such as ditch digging and patrol) between the Immunes (singular: Immunis), and the common soldiers (Milites). They were specialists in generally useful things (due to prior experience or training courses) such as engineering, musicians, hunting, or (in the case of Strabo) cookery. (Why is he a specialist? Well, he says he is a very special cook.)


	2. I: Arrival

It seems that I managed to forget to define many things in last chapter's glossary. I apologise; so this one will be bulked out to make up.

And thanks for all the nice reviews and "Favourite Stories"!

Anyway, seeing as we're about to enter Alagaesia, into the uncomfortable realm of a world created by someone else, I must admit something: I have made a few assumptions about it, where Paolini's own worldbuilding was lacking. (All too many areas, for my liking!) These may be incorrect, especially as I once told someone off in a review for doing the same. (As I recall, it was about arranged marriage, with me claiming that there was no such thing described by Paolini, and a justly angered author begging to differ.) Examples of this will start to turn up in this chapter.

Note: If I do not include a term in the glossary, it is for two reasons. One: that I have forgotten to. The other is that it is too rude for fictionpress to accept.

* * *

"_There was a town in Spain that was utterly destroyed when it was undermined by rabbits." Pliny the Elder, Natural History 8.54_

Darkness.

Darkness…

Is this death?

Eyes open, wander.

Darkness.

Pluto?

"Pluto?"

An echo. A shade can speak, then. Or was he among the heroes, divine? Unlikely, surely. Unless…

No. What great books had he written? What great deeds had he done? To end in shadow. He was surprised he could remember his own name now. Flaccus. Publius Cassius Flaccus. How pathetic. How damned pathetic.

And, out of the darkness, there came a great moan. An echoing moan.

Worse, a moan he recognized. Recognised from endless mornings after drunken carousing.

"Gnaeus Aurelius?"

"Publius Cassius?"

There was a moment of silence. Of all the people Flaccus wanted to spend the afterlife near, Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher was extremely low on his list. Just his luck.

But fortune favours the bold, so he asked: "Is that you?"

"It is, I think."

Scuffling noises. An curse, shouted loudly.

"Get off my fucking face, Pulcher! Get off-"

"Marcus Thorius?"

Another familiar voice. "Suprius Julius Rufus," Flaccus said. It was quite a coincidence that he was dead, and that all these people were in the Underworld alongside him, and that all had retained their memories, and that there was not a River Styx in sight. Which, as the Stoics said, could only mean one thing.

"We, gentlemen," he said, "Are alive."

"Bravo," someone muttered.

Flaccus, now that this was securely in his mind, attempted to get to his feet; and, several grunts and yelps from unseen bodies later, he succeeded. "Does anyone have a torch?" he called. "Anyone? And Praefectus Castrorum! To your feet! You will assist me in getting these men to their feet. There are more around here, I am quite sure. Gnaeus Aurelius: you will give us light, on pain of your own personal decimation."

There was an almost audible gulp, and another desperate scrabbling around.

All this was soon drowned out by Marcus Thorius Mactator demonstrating his parade ground credentials. He took a breath-this alone drowned out the small noises around him-and unleashed his voice.

None afterwards could quite say what Mactator had said; but it was a general wave of noise, accompanied by judicious kicks and whacks with his cane, that certainly did the job.

"Reporting for duty, Legate," said a very small sounding voice.

"Centurion… Agelastus. That is your name. Gaius Petronius Agelastus."

"Just so."

The commander of the cook's century. "Call your Century to order, Gaius Petronius, once Mactator's bellows are done."

"Of course, Legate." The roar eventually died down, to be replaced by another. "Alright then, you scum, you villains, you soldiers of Rome! Head count! One!"

"Two!" another voice cried.

"Three!" a third.

And so on, and so forth, until, happily, all eighty men had been called in.

"Excellent! Now, are there any other _milites_, any other _fellatores_, who dare present themselves? Speak!"

Liking the man's style, Flaccus smiled to himself in the darkness. But voices answered, apart from the echoing _speak_…_speak…spe…_

"Very well. Gnaeus Aurelius, we have no light. Explain."

Almost as if on queue, a fire flared up. "Until now!" Pulcher had, somehow, managed to cobble a torch together. Now, light filled their surroundings. Blinking, Flaccus peered out: stone tunnels. Four of them, disappearing into the darkness. Underground-that was no surprise in itself, of course. They had after all just fallen through the earth, and presumably some stone had plugged the top. But there was something about these tunnels. Something…

Carved, perhaps? No. Just an underground river, long dried up. Aqueduct men spoke of such things.

Just a river…

"Why, Master," Publidor Tertius wanted to know, revealing himself at last, "is the ceiling so flat?"

And no one present, not even Immunis Balbus (who had once been an aqueduct engineer's apprentice, apparently) could tell them.

"River," he had muttered between bruised lips (Mactator's cane had shown its mark), "but the rock above shouldn't be that flat. I mean… and we would be shattered if we fell all the way. Dashed bloody!" He reached for his gladius, which he found at its side. "Shattered!"

"SILENCE IN THE RANKS!" barked Agelastus.

"QUIET!" roared Mactator.

"Enough," Flaccus said. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, if you please."

The silence was instant, oppressive.

"Very well. Logically, no hole should have opened in the ground. Unfortunately, the Gods have willed that it has done so; and they have also willed that some of our number, at least, have life in them. Now, these tunnels doubtless lead somewhere; and, logically, more of our comrades lie down there. Some, perhaps, injured or dead. Nevertheless, we are the XXIII Adiutrix, and that is what we shall do: we shall be supportive. We shall not abandon each other, even our corpses. Gaius Petreius: you select eight men, and instruct them to scour these tunnels for any stragglers. Two down each tunnel. You will give these parties a torch apiece, and, like Theseus, a ball of string to follow this labyrinth." Every Legionary, if he wished to repair his tunic on campaign, had to have a ball of thread or two. "Fasten them here somehow; and if they run into trouble, they will tug on the string. We shall send some support over. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Legate."

"Very well. Gnaeus Aurelius; how did you make those torches?"

Pulcher suddenly looked somewhat sheepish. "I used my cane for the… the stick bit," he said. "Not befitting for an officer, I know, but…"

"Quite alright, young man. We can make an allowance for you. But just this once." Flaccus' voice softened, as he remembered his own time as a Military Tribune. Far more hard working than Pulcher, of course; but just as confusing.

"Of course. Thank you, Publius Cassius. Thank you."

Torches were hastily fashioned out of javelin shafts, with cloth torn from innocent garments, and pitch taken from a bottle in Mactator's pack. ("Always be prepared" was his only comment; he probably had a small arsenal in there too.) Thread was found, and knotted together into longer strings (another of Mactator's works.) They were tied together around a javelin, attached to the heaviest object that could be found: Mactator's pack. Practical man as he was, he didn't protest in the least.

So, presently, the pairs set off, strings in hand, torches raised, swords at the ready. "Good luck!" someone called. "Fortuna be with you!" But the cry of "silence in the ranks!" replied once more.

"Which only leaves the question," Flaccus heard Pulcher muttering, "of where our horses went."

"They're safe, galloping around some foreign Dacian field, breathing good, fresh air, and gorging themselves fat on corn." Spurius Julius Rufus shrugged. "More that could be said for us, at least. How much food do we have?"

A good question. The baggage had contained enough to last a good march, of course; and every man had done the old campaigner's trick of eating heartily before leaving, and bundling plenty of food into their packs whenever it could be found. But, even so, if there was no way out of this… well, best not to think of that. If none could be found, fall on your sword, like a true Roman. Until then, there was hope!

"I really could not say. Marcus Thorius! Inspect the men's packs. Centurion, you will place centuries. And then," Flaccus added with his broadest, most benevolent smile, "we shall eat."

And they did just that. Food was counted, men posted to the tunnel entrances, and a meal was made ready. Not much: a few gulps of wine, a few bites of bread and cheese, with meat from Gods alone knew what animal someone had hunted (rabbit, Flaccus suspected, although he was not certain.) But it would do well enough.

"So, Marcus Thorius," Flaccus said, reclining as if in his old triclinium. "The only thing left to ask is how much food do we actually have left?" He bit into the scrap of rabbit. Not exactly fine dining, but it would do.

"If we have the wagons? A month, possibly two, and then we starve. If not?" The Butcher spread his hands wide. "It depends. Possibly each other!" He laughed his strange, harsh laugh. "A new way of decimation. Twajan would be proud."

"Stop that defeatist, barbaric nonsense! We will find a way out of here. We're a Roman Legion, and it takes more than some trick of the Gods to stop us. Why, in Frontius' _Strategems_, we-"

"Hark!"

Heads jerked around. Sextus Annius Rufus, the cook, stood, listening, alert. "There it was again!"

"What?"

"That… that noise!"

Then they heard it. A roaring in the distance, a thunderous roar, as if of some great beast. Echoing along the tunnels, multiplying again and again.

"A waterfall," said Spurius Julius, reclining once again. "A waterfall."

"Why, then, could we not hear it earlier?" Flaccus asked contemptuously.

"Begging your pardon, Primus Pilus," said Immunis Balbus, "but that's no waterfall."

"Like… a lion," Pulcher said, looking white faced in the flickering torch. "A lion at the Games!"

"And we have more than enough Gladiators to stop it, if it comes our way," said Flaccus. With deliberate, insouciant calm, he rose to his feet, knowing that every eye present was on him. Staring out of pale, anxious faces. "Order the men up, Centurion."

"Yes, Legate. Right, lads. On your feet! Now!" Agelastus, although pale with fear himself-his first battle, probably, if there was to be one-gave the order without a quiver in his voice. "And get your swords sharpened. Like a razor, damn it!" Sharpening stones were produced from packs, and cloaks dropped into a heap.

And Flaccus drew his sword.

He had two swords. One, now sadly lost with his horse, was an ancient heirloom: taken from the hand of a British chieftain, by an ancestor who had fought with Julius Caesar. Beautiful, British work, with a jeweled hilt and engraving, but now so old that it was only ever used for parades.

The other, which he preferred, was his long, excessively battered, brutally scratched spatha. In absence of any slave bar his secretary (who was busily working with on own gladius), Flaccus had to sharpen it himself. But he knew how it was done. He knew his trade, as he knew his worth. Stone scraped on steel.

And the roaring continued, louder than ever.

Pulcher drew his gladius, and held it in a shaking hand; then, slowly, oh so slowly, he began to perform his exercises. First position, Guard, thrust, block, stab, Second position…

Spurius Julius drew his own spatha, and just held it before him, staring at the blade. His own first battle, too? Apart from against rioting mobs, almost certainly.

Mactator just grimaced, and took his sword in his left hand.

"Silence in the ranks," an officer would occasionally mutter. "Silence in the ranks. Silence."

And the roaring grew louder.

"You know," Rufus muttered suddenly, jerking Flaccus out of his reverie, "maybe we should… well, maybe…"

"Form battle order? Of course. Form hollow square!"

"No, no," Rufus said, but gave up as the men formed into their square. Packs and cloaks were placed into the middle, all save for Flaccus' red cloak; like Caesar, he wore it into battle. A huddle of fifty eight men, and five officers, with slaves gripping swords. More torches were been lit, and were now passed to the slaves. A small huddle of red shields, javelins readied, standing against the darkness.

And a scream. Quite sudden, shrill and harsh. But not a soldier even blinked. Even Pulcher, who instead raised his sword and gripped in all the more tightly.

Footsteps, running.

"Open files," Flaccus ordered quietly, for the runner had to be let in, and met by his Legate. He strode through the minute gap in the ranks, his sword held low.

Mactator was making the old litany, as he paced around the interior of the square, his sandals echoing loudly in the chamber. "Face front. Javelin raised. Silence in the ranks. Face front. Javelin raised. Silence in the ranks. Face front…"

And the runner burst out of the darkness, right in front of Flaccus. His helmet was gone, and his shield, his javelin thrown, but his sword was drawn and his eyes wide and feverish. "Giants!" he yelled, panting. "Giants! Giants! Killed Egnatius! Horned devils…" He stumbled past his commander, and into the square.

Flaccus was about to follow, but there was a sudden roar right by him, and the enemy emerged from the tunnel.

He-it-was a giant, grey skin, yellow eyes, horned, with a great dark axe in its hands, and rusty male on its chest. Another roar, more thunderous than ever, blasted out of its snarling mouth.

But what of it? Sword up, stamp your right foot forward, and lunge forward. Lunge at that bastard, that barbarian, with the blood of your men trickling off its bloody fangs. Never give quarter, never yield. Grip your three feet of cold steel in your right hand, forget its dragging weight, and stab.

So it was that Legate Publicus Cassius Flaccus, Senator and Patrician, faced his first Urgal.

The great axe swung down, but he had already taken a little step to the left, so the great weapon clanged into the ground with a noise like a catapault. The beast swatted angrily at the sword with its left arm, knocking it upward with incredible strength. It was almost jerked out of Flaccus' hand, but he kept the blow going on, thrusting up into the brute's shoulder. He twisted the blade, dragged it out, and stabbed again, this time into the arm. And again, but his foe was canny, and abandoned its axe, jumping back with a horrible quickness. It scrabbled for its sword.

Its first swing against almost jarred Flaccus' sword clean away.

The second swing was done with great strength, cutting the air like a scythe by a creature with a bullock's power, but was crude. The very tip of the blade scratched Flaccus' armour, clanging harshly and he was nigh on thrown from his feet. He could almost imagine his ribs breaking, and the wind being knocked from him. Sparks flew.

But the opening was there for the sword to slide up into the creature's throat, so very high up, so very vulnerable, so the third swing never came.

"There now," Flaccus said, yanking his sword out of the thing's throat. He tried to think of something else to say. Something witty. But nothing came to mind, so he just jumped out of the way of the falling corpse, and spat on it. "Those ranks are open?" he panted. "Good." He staggered back into the square, and accepted every handshake that was offered, every pat on the back.

"You've had your fun now. Silence in the ranks, and eyes front! And I must say, Publius Cassius, that that was very well done." Agelastus gave the brief, thinnest smile, and turned back to face the tunnel. Like all Centurions, he stood in the front rank, disdaining the enemy to come closer.

"Was that a German?" Pulcher asked. "I've seen them in the arena, and they're always very tall. And very fierce."

"This one had horns, which I doubt are a standard feature of the modern gladiator. Although you'll never know what they come up with nowadays." And was the skin colour a trick of the torchlight? Every man had heard, shuddered inwardly, at the Furor Teutonica, the great rage German warriors were supposed to put up. Flaccus had read of Marius' German wars, and the enemy was always depicted as gigantic there.

But then came more roaring, so Flaccus' mind was removed from such matters.

A great rush of them now, pouring down the same tunnel as before; but, without such inconvenient obstacles as human beings in the way, Agelastus' Century could do their work properly. "Pila!" he barked, and a volley of javelins was hurled. They were smaller ones now, with little round shields in their hands; but the pila stuck into them, making them too heavy to even lift. The roar turned to yelps and howls of pain, and the clanging of shields dropping down. "Again! Pila!" More javelins whooshing. Agelastus would like to have ordered the charge now, to sweep the disorganized enemy away with cold steel and hot blood, but he had other tunnels to guard, and he knew just how vulnerable his flanks would be. "Prepare to receive the enemy!"

"Hold!"

Roars, and thundering feet.

"Hold! Optio Lentullus, your flankers will give a volley!" More javelins, hurled by the men on the sides, but not the foe were wickedly close, so close that you could almost smell their vile breath, and the blood dripping onto the floor.

Nothing for it then. "Charge!"

Only the men facing the enemy tunnel obeyed, for they were disciplined, and only they needed to obey. Each man ducked behind his shield, raised his sword, and ran at the foe.

Flaccus had seen it before, and knew how it would end. The front rank, crouching behind their great shields, didn't even need to use their swords at first; their sheer weight and momentum was enough to knock their foe sprawling. "Leave them for the second rank!" he muttered, but there was no need for that; they knew their duty, and it was to replace the dead, and stab the enemy fallen.

Only twelve or so men, in their rigid ranks, were needed in that tiny chamber. The enemy charge faltered, the ranks seemed to shudder back. A man fell, his reinforced helmet smashed open by a sword, his brains streaming out, but another legionary stepped forward, with a snarl no less bestial than the foe, and stabbed about himself with the gladius. "With me, executores!" Flaccus said, raising his sword again and running at the melee; but it was not necessary, for the enemy had had enough. The roars finally subsided, and the barbarians were running, panicked. Finally, finally, the Romans could cheer; but only for a moment. "Into line!" Agelastus ordered. "Well done, lads. Well done." He had a long scratch on his forehead, and his sword was bloodied.

"Butcher's bill?" Mactator asked. Everyone smiled weakly at the pun, and then laughed, for they were alive.

"Gaius Flavinius Bellator is dead; and I have three wounded, who will readily identify themselves." They were already, with groans of pain. "But we've had worse. Slaves. Tend to them!" Linen was produced, and the three man dragged into the centre of the square.

"So light," Flaccus said, surprised.

"No spirit in them after the first charge. No bottom. Not like our brave Roman lads!" Agelastus deliberately raised his voice so as the men could hear. The chamber rang with cheers, and Flaccus knew he had a good centurion on Gaius Petreius Agelastus.

And then, for a moment, quiet. The stink of excrement; someone had shat himself. It always happened in a fight. It didn't even imply cowardice. It was a fact of war, but one that was quietly neglected in dispatches and reports to the Emperor. The men remained in their square, but were presently ordered to stand at ease, save for sentries. Tentatively, they began to dart out and scavenge through the barbarian corpses. Once they were ascertained to not be poisonous, more joined in. It seemed fairly poor looting. Leather wristbands, whilst not unattractive, were no substitute for true gold and silver. There were a few more roars, and the shield wall was formed a few more times; but no enemy came. A few men even slept, standing up, in the manner of soldiers. One of the wounded men perished, his enemy's blade poisoned. The other two were forced awake, but would live. Flaccus attempted to sheath his sword, but found that the blade was crusted with blood, so he called for a rag to clean it.

And then a string was tugged.

Swords rasped out of scabbards; Flaccus stared into the tunnel the string had been pulled from. He readied his sword again, and adjusted his pteruges. "Gaius Petreius. You will detach ten men, who will investigate this. I will lead."

"But, Legate…"

"I will lead," he said again. Order nothing that you wouldn't do yourself; and he felt in an energetic mood. His blood was up, that was it. "I am certain that nothing shall go wrong." He meant it.

The men were chosen. Flaccus took up a torch, and they set off down the tunnel, swords drawn.

As they went on, they could see that the tunnels remained disturbingly regular. Immunis Balbus, who had volunteered eagerly to join the party, gave up trying to explain it as a river. "Whoever made" he would say-not "Whatever", but "Whoever"-at junctions-"had a mind for confusing us. Bastards. Bleeding Theseus couldn't get through this."

"He did, with string. Now onward, boys, onward!" Tesserarius Felix snapped.

And onward they went, with the flickering, guttering, dimming torch leading guiding them, the string limp on the ground.

The end came quite suddenly. One last junction, one last left turn; and they came upon two legionaries, crouching in an alcove. "Get down!" one of them hushed, before recognizing Flaccus and making a hasty nod. "Sorry, Legate, but you really must hide here. Thank Jupiter you came!" His face perceptibly fell as he saw only ten men reinforcements, beside his commander.

"What is the matter with you?" Flaccus hissed, staring into the next chamber. The torch revealed nothing.

"Men! Two bald buggers, that's what. Nine of our lads in there, and… and…"

"Out with it, man. Out with it!" Flaccus took the man by the shoulder, and squeezed hard, not caring that he was armoured. The gesture was enough. He had fought, marched, fell a great height, and was now losing his patience. "Explain," he said, trying to be more reasonable. "You are a Roman soldier. A Roman soldier is not frightened of two bald men without good reason. Were these men armed?" Unlikely. He couldn't smell the blood; and what manner of two men could dispatch nine soldiers? "Were they… horned, and grey?"

"No! Just two men!" The man was obviously panicking, and his whisper threatened to crack any minute into sobbing. "Two men, and nine of our boys. Our best, with Aquilifier Crassus-

Flaccus leapt to his feet. If the Aquila was lost, then the Legion was lost. "If, soldier, I find that our banner has gone," he said, pouring venom into every syllable, "then it will be Fustarium for the pair of your. Do you understand? Now, stand up."

Both men sat their, blankly.

"In the name of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Trajan, long may he reign, I demand that you stand!"

They did, fumbling for their swords.

"Soldiers! Forward!" Flaccus turned, and, sword raised, hurled himself into the room with a cry. The shouts of his men echoed, making it sound as if an entire century was in there. "Forward!"

And Flaccus could see why those two soldiers had hesitated.

All nine men, including Aquilifier Crassus in his leopard skin headdress, were standing. Lifeless. If Medusa herself had risen out of the icy darkness of myth and stared them down-if today's barbarian giants had rent them asunder, spilling their blood and gore across the impassive stone floor-then it couldn't have been worse. For then, at least, there was something to kill. Something to see, something to explain it.

But these men stood, eyes staring wide, not moving an inch. Not a hair twitched. When a legionary poked one with his javelin's butt, he didn't react.

Worst of all, though, the Eagle was gone.

"Soldiers." Flaccus' voice was deathly quiet. "Were we in Rome, and such a thing was to occur, every one of you knows what will be the punishment." He didn't need to spell it out, but he did so anyway. "We would, at best, be forced out of every encampment of our allies. On campaign, we would march, and ride, and find a spot outside our own walls to pitch our tents. In howling gale, and with the foe all around us, whilst our comrades sit and make merry, safe in their own walls. Our own walls. No one would speak to us. We would be a lost Legion, forgotten, until I order you into some breach, in some foreign fortress; or some horde or barbarians breaks our ranks apart, until we are but a knot of men, huddled around the absence of our flag. Then, perhaps, we would be forgiven. At worst, we would be ordered out of the army. A spilling of worthless men, with no trade save that of killing. We would be cut throats. Beggars. Thieves, parricides, slaves, men of the worst and basest kind. We would be driven to every depravity, with our dignitas laid waste, and even the memory of our victories ground into the dust.

But we are not in Rome.

And, as such, I give you only one punishment. I give myself only one punishment. We shall retake our Aquila. That, gentlemen, is our task."

_Wyrda_

"That, and to bury these men."

_Wyrda_

A voice. A female voice. "Who said that?"

A woman, stepping out of the flickering shadows of torch light, it seemed. Dressed in the tight, clinging garb of some whore, some tomb walker, of the kind that even Pulcher would probably avoid: black, leathery, degenerate. With black hair, and what may have been once the scent of pine, now crushed beneath the baser ones of blood, and filth. And strange, pointed ears.

"Ma'm. Get away from here. This place is not safe; I must ask you to leave." Clearly she was lost from some sort of bizarre party. Why else could a woman be wondering around here, in such a state of undress?

She drew her sword; and, such was her confidence, her fluidity, the deadly grace in that movement, that Flaccus took a step backwards, and his men formed a shield wall. "I must warn you-" he began again, and then stopped, exasperated. He was tired, thirsty, and here he was, threatening women with trained soldiers. And he had lost an Aquila. His Aquila!

He felt something, quite suddenly, in his mind: sorrow. But not his. It was quite indefinable, but when he felt regretful about something-as he had every right to now-he did not feel… well, not quite like that. Something different. And he usually couldn't think this rationally about it.

She said something-some gibberish. And offered him a canteen.

It seemed that she wasn't about to strike, so he kept his sword raised, and cautiously took it. He unscrewed it, and took a cautious sniff. Nothing, it seemed, except water. He poured few drops into the cap, and, never taking his eyes off the woman, drank.

"Delicious," he said, and it was. "Quite delicious. Clear, cold. Magnificent!" He knew he was putting this on, but he didn't want to bother her or anything. "Do you speak Latin?"

No answer, save for some questioning sounding gibberish.

"Do you speak Greek?" More gibberish. Damn!

In the end, he gave up, and pointed at himself. "Me. Flaccus. Publius Cassius Flaccus."

A strange nod. The same gesture. "Arya Drottingu."

"Now…" this was getting surreal. He pondered how to mime out what he was going to say next. "Did you see any bald men?" he muttered. "With an eagle?"

The woman-Arya-pointed down the tunnel.

"Oh, you do speak Latin. Good. Tesserarius Felix, we're moving out. We have an Aquila to catch."

The woman then seemed to go into a frenzy, arms flailing into a series of blocking gestures. Feelings of negativity flashed across his mind. And an image: of two small, bald men, vapourising someone-who looked uncannily like himself-with lightning. She then pointed at the statues of his soldiers.

"Ah. That could be difficult." Then a thought struck him. He concerntrated, as hard as he could, on an image of Arya raising her right arm.

She did so. An image flashed into his own mind, of him raising his middle finger and thumb; he did so. The soldiers looked on, quite mystified. "It seems," Flaccus explained, "that we cannot understand what she is saying, but we can understand images of thought. That's just as well. Now…" Another thought struck him. This art seemed quite out of the ordinary. Magical, even. So, too, did paralyzing a large group of fit, healthy men.

"Could you… help these men?" he asked. He put a memory into the front of his mind, and held it there: of them on the march, slogging up a mountain track, the sweat pouring off them; chatting away like magpies, laughing, grinning. Not standing here, frozen solid, along, in the dark of the underworld.

Tentatively, it seemed to him, she nodded. She took a step towards them, and seemed to concentrate. Swords were raised once more, but Flaccus ordered them down.

And then, with the force and power of Cicero himself, she spoke.

A few words, just a few, but they seemed to work. The men sprang out of their bonds, rubbing at limbs, and speaking long and loud at the tops of the voices.

All, that is, save for one.

Aquilifier Marcus Uulius Crassus tore at his armour, snarling, and hurled his breastplate across the room. Then he drew his sword from its sheath and stabbed himself below the breast. His thrust, however, was somewhat feeble, owing to Arya suddenly grabbing his arm, and holding it there with incredible strength, and so he did not at once dispatch himself, but in his death struggle managed to push at her, so as he fell to the ground and made a great cry. His fellows saw him and, at this, their shouting stopped. They knew what had to be done. Flaccus saw that he was smeared with blood, and that most of his bowels were protruding, but that still he had his eyes open and was alive; and he was terribly shocked, not from the blood, but that anyone could endure that. But Arya went to him and said a word her hands outstretched, and tried to replace his bowels, sparks flashing from her fingertips, and the flesh knitting together. Accordingly, when Crassus became aware of this, he pushed the healer away, with every fibre of strength left in his body, every last stretch of energy left to him-and tore his bowels open with his hands, rending the wound once more. Thus, he died.

Arya looked up at the onlookers, up to her elbows in blood, with red flecking her face. An image flashed into Flaccus' mind.

_A waste._

And then she walked away.

* * *

Well, I hoped you enjoyed that. Welcome to Alagaesia. My assumptions there were that the dwarves actually did properly out those tunnels beneath Tronjheim, but did not light them. (I hope that when I chose to set this book is beginning to become clear.) Also, if there are any mysterious lines across the page, then I'm sorry; Microsoft Word's punctuation works in mysterious ways. Bonus brownie points will be given to anyone who finds out where I got Crassus' death from, because I must confess that it was largely not my own work, but the hideously misquoted words of a classical biographer.

Anyway, there is a frankly gargantuan glossary below, if you're interested. Next chapter will be up ASAP!

Glossary

(Chapter 1's extras)

Praetorian Guard: The Emperor's Bodyguard. (Term originally used for the guards of Roman Generals.) They were resented, and mocked mercilessly by more or less everyone, not least because they only ever fought when the Emperor rode to war (and were better paid than the common soldier), and were described as a "get rich quick brigade" by Juvenal. They also had an unfortunate habit of making people Emperor (such as with Claudius in AD 41), and not always living up to their status as a supposed elite unit when in battle. This will hopefully surprise other players of _Rome: Total War _just as much as it surprised me.

Crowns: When Flaccus mentions "crowns", he means Roman military medals. These ranged from the "Laurel Crown" (the Laurel Wreath worn by triumphing generals), to the Mural Crown (for being the first man into an enemy city.)

Centurion: Legionary officer, who commanded a century of eighty men (sixty soldiers, twenty non combatants). By now, they could either buy their way in, or fight their way up through the ranks. The Legion's head Centurion was the Primus Pilus.

Praefectus Castrorum (sorry for any previous misspellings): The Camp Prefect. The Legion's longest serving Centurion, and thus extremely experienced. He was responsible for looking after equipment and the camp, as well as building siege works; and was the third in command, after the Legate and Tribunus Laticlavus. He had also previously been a Primus Pilus. The Primus Pilus would command the first century of the first cohort, which guarded the Legion's Eagle Standard (Aquila); and was also a senior advisor to the Legate.

Military Tribune: Six men, appointed to the Legion, of Senatorial Rank. They had a vaguely high rank, and were given whatever tasks the Legate chose them to carry out. The most senior of these was the Tribunus Laticlavius (again, I may have been previously misspelling this one), who was the Legate's second in command, and was supposed to learn from his actions. (Also, he was supposed to take command if the Legate was killed, or somehow unavailable.) Traditionally, he was to become a Quaestor (fairly junior senator, who worked in the treasury to supervise its corruption-and, hopefully, the lack thereof) after leaving his position.

Legate: Commander of the legion, only subordinate to the General, and of Senatorial Rank. He was appointed by the Emperor, and had to have had previous command experience as a Military Tribune.

Chapter 2 Glossary

Shades: The Romans believed that most dead people would end up in the underworld, as shades. This was not, like the Christian hell, necessarily a place of punishment; but simply a shadowy form. Nothing great could be achieved here, but just an eternity of… well, more or less nothingness. Only a few great heroes could rise to the divine sphere and live amongst the Gods; it was for this reason, as much as any desire for a personality cult, that Roman Emperors were deified after death. Curiously, these spirits were believed to be female.

And, as for Pluto (Hades is the Greek name; it is a strange point of Roman religion that they considered equivalent Gods to be the same God, but with a different aspects-so, for example, all Love deities are more or less Venus as another aspect), he simply ruled the Underworld. He was not especially evil (at least, not by the standards of Greek and Roman deities.)

Decimation: The punishment for particularly poor units was to have one in ten men of their ranks killed by their comrades. By AD 100, it was extremely rare. But, of course, tales get around about army punishments, always have, and probably always will.

Milites: Common soldiers.

Optio: Lieutenant to a Centurion, who could read and write.

Tesserarius: Sergeant.

Adiutrix: Literally, supportive. Originally meant that the Legion was raised in a crisis for a desperate situation (by, say, "borrowing" sailors from the Imperial fleet to help out against a rival in a civil war.) The nickname inevitably sticks over time, and can get confusing. (This is not unusual, where Rome is concerned.) There are two other Legions called Adiutrix at this time.

Pack: Not, for the Roman legionary, a rucksack type thing, but a four foot pole with a leather bag attached to the top. Easy to carry, easy to drop in an emergency.

Triclinium: Roman dining room.

Red cloak: The red cloak of the Roman general. Flaccus is obviously being somewhat pretentious, as his hero Caesar mentions himself (in third person) galloping into battle with his red cloak on, so as the men could recognize him. Before anyone questions the practicality of this, it must be remembered that Julius Caesar was not above occasionally exaggerating his own exploits.

Spatha: A longer sword, used by the Roman cavalry, and also by officers who fought on horseback.

Reinforced helmet: Due to the threat posed by the Dacian falx-a polearm with a long blade on the end-to Roman armour, helmets had been reinforced to withstand enemy blows. Romans had a long history of adapting to, and even adopting, enemy weapons; the gladius itself was originally a Spanish blade.

Executores: Legion officers.

Pteruges: The skirt of leather straps worn by Roman officers.

Fustarium: A harsh punishment: being beaten to death by your own soldiers. Usually reserved for men who fell asleep on guard.

Tomb walker: Roman slang for prostitute. They often congregated around tombs to ply their trade.

Cicero: Marcus Tullius Cicero (106 BC-43 BC), a prominent Roman orator, philosopher and politician. Considered as one of Roman's greatest Orators even long after his death in Roman times; even hundreds of years after his death, the Roman writer Macrobius would attribute the witticisms of his characters to those originally said by Cicero.

Dignitas: More than just "dignity", but instead a Roman's whole standing in the Roman world. His integrity, family and ancestors, word, intelligence, knowledge, character, and general worth were all summed up by Dignitas. Similarly, Auctoritas (which may turn up later in this story) encompassed a Roman's clout, pre eminence, public influence, and the ability to influence events by reputation alone. All senior politicians had Auctoritas, but so could less significant people if they were of enough influence.


	3. I: Under the Mountain

So, everyone. Chapter 3. And the errors keep mounting up!

Firstly, this chapter is likely to involve a discussion of Alagaesian politics from a Roman point of view. It is time, I feel, to make a small confession. I am not an unrestrained fan of Christopher Paolini. On the other hand (in the unlikely event that the fine people of anti-shur'tugal are reading this), neither am I a complete hater. My stance is that, whilst I believe Paolini to have a number of faults, at the same time I cannot help but retain a certain fondness for the Cycle. I read and enjoyed it when I was younger, and it pulled me onto better books. If nothing else, I will certainly be there for the final book. As such, said discussion of politics is going to be enjoyable to write. (If you want more details, give me a PM, or mention it in a review. I wrote a detailed explanation, but decided that it would not read well if all those pages were to be jammed in between story and glossary.)

Secondly, Biisaiyowaq, whoever he, she or it is, has alerted me to something, quite by accident. I don't mean this ironically at all: thank you! This is because, in the review, Biisaiyowaq wrote that he, she, or it forgot the name of my character. Firstly, his name is Publius Cassius Flaccus ("big ears"). Secondly, it has made me realize something: that these characters are, at present, a bit flat. There have been a great many Roman generals throughout history who modeled themselves off Alexander the Great. (Pompey the Great, for starters, who wore his quiff, and claimed to have the magical cloak of Alexander the Great.) Rome has also had a history of producing generals who were vain, disdainful of subordinates, and convinced of their genius. Thus far, Flaccus has had no distinguishing traits. None! Even I, the author, have not crystal clear image of him. This, dear readers, will change.

Similarly, whilst I admire and respect the Roman Empire and Republic, I also acknowledge that they did some extremely evil things, alongside all their triumphs of technology, law, and so on. I will thus try my best to not have a Gary Stuish Roman Legion solving every single problem in the book, or slaughtering every dragon/magic user/urgal that gets in their path.

Thirdly, something has came to my attention. Romans did indeed call superiors the equivalent of "sir", and addressed their inferiors in a fairly modern manner. That said, they did not salute. This will cause a corresponding change in my writing.

Finally… well, do you like the quotes I'm using? If anyone can find anything else interesting, funny, dramatic, or just cool, from the Roman period (or, at least something that would have been read by Romans-Greek stuff for example), please let me know. I'll try to include it if appropriate.

Now, after that ranting, back to the story.

* * *

"_And it is here, incidentally, that they are said to fight with pygmies. This is no fable-the little men really do exist. They live in underground caves and have horses that are likewise proportionately small." Aristotle, The History of Animals 9.12, describing the Scythian Battling Crane._

Contrary to what Flaccus would say afterwards, the emergence of the XXIII Adiutrix from the darkness under Tronjheim was far from a Triumphal Parade.

Instead of him riding his chariot covered in red paint, they were led by a woman covered in red blood. Rather than shouting their rudest, filthiest marching songs at the tops of their voices, the men were instead too exhausted to say anything. (Indeed, rather than marching out in a great column with spears and standards gleaming, the Legion emerged over a week, in dribs and drabs.) One might argue that, purely aesthetically, that a vast crater filled with towering icicles and a beautiful, clear night, with a thousand unfamiliar stars gazing down, was a fair exchange for the streets of Rome with the Temple of Jupiter and Helios galloping overhead; but, as another chill wind whipped through armour and cloaks like a scythe through wheat, sending the vile smell of corpses wafting towards them, the Romans began to doubt this.

And, rather than a cheering crowd, there was a young man, sitting on the hard stone floor, staring off into the middle distance. Squinting a little, one could make out what looked to be some sort of elephant-it was impossible to be sure in this dim light-squatting in the distance.

The young man had brown hair and eyes, and slightly-almost imperceptibly-pointed ears. As he stood, he flinched suddenly, and froze, his eyes screwed up, fists suddenly clenched, as if expecting some deadly enemy. All this happened in a fraction of an instant; and subsided. But, all the same, Flaccus couldn't help but thinking that he was not in the best of health. There was something under that tan that… well, best to think of that mystery later. He needed his bed, more than anything unexpected. Men were already dropping off where they stood.

Arya walked up to him, spoke a few words, dropped a bundle of clothes on the ground before the boy-robes, a tunic, gloves, and ran off back into the tunnel. The young man's eyes seemed to linger on her for a moment more than was strictly appropriate; and returned to Flaccus.

Nothing sprang to mind, and no gods gave him any especial foresight. "Good evening," Flaccus said cheerfully, struggling to hold in a colossal yawn.

The young man hesitated.

"You don't speak any Latin, do you?" The young man shrugged. "Nor Greek." Another shrug. "Damn." Everyone knew Greek! What sort of… what sort of Italian Hayseeds knew nothing?

"I suppose you could do that mind trick of yours sir," someone chirped up helpfully. Flaccus inwardly sighed, knowing that the jokes would start here, and never end. There goes Publius Cassius Flaccus, the magic man! The witch! Sir, can I have some help? My snake needs perking up, and witches help with that, wink wink nudge nudge.

"It seems to need one of these foreigners to initiate it, Immunis Strabo. Silence in the ranks. I need you, Centurion." They had led Arya, after some persuasion, back to Agelastus' Century, and had together emerged here. Wherever here was.

"Centurion?"

But Agelastus, of course, was fast asleep.

"Will nothing go well today?" Flaccus muttered to himself. Can't even have an officer at hand to wallop a soldier! A senior officer couldn't possibly do it; he felt that it was beneath their dignity.

_I hope so._

A different mind to Arya's. The young man's, then. "Gentlemen. I will now perform some incredible tricks of magic. Pray be silent." There was, of course, quiet laughter and muttering, but not too much.

"Now. Your name, please." He was getting the hang of this.

_The image of a man, with Arya's pointed ears, in white armour, with… a dragon adjacent to him. A man, skewering something on a great, red longsword. The latter image hazy, hesitant, as if not much considered, or pushed to the back of the mind._

"Could you say that out loud?" No response, of course, so Flaccus sighed and pointed at himself. "Publius Cassius Flaccus."

The man pointed to himself. "Eragon… Shadeslayer."

And why had he so conveniently pushed out his mind, this Eragon, just when it was required? The answer came almost immediately.

"Sir." Agelastus, his eyes open, was staring into the darkness. "I am dreaming, aren't I?"

"No. Of that I am quite certain." Flaccus, his cane being used as a torch, drew his sword, and took a swing at the Centurion with the flat. The blow clanged off his armour, but he took a quick step back all the same. "That's for falling asleep on duty, Centurion."

"Of course. I'm sorry, sir. It's just that, that elephant. It's… flying."

"Flying?" Eyes strained into the night sky. Nothing to be seen, but that bird up there.

And Eragon's almost rapturous expression, as the bird's size increased proportionately with the amazement of the legionaries below.

All drew weapons. Some, those few still with their pila, prepared to throw. Mactator's roared commands silenced them; they rang especially loudly, as everyone else was speechless. Quite speechless.

A draco. Not whizzing along atop the banner of some raider, but in the flesh. Huge, sapphire coloured, and red dripping from its chops, and-

"That's bloody fire," someone muttered, sword still in hand. Around its mouth, in a brief blast.

"Steady," Mactator was ordering. "Keep ranks." His great, black, metal arm was raised high.

But, as the creature landed, and Eragon embraced it, and stroked its bowed forehead, it seemed that their fears were completely unjustified. Flaccus kept catching brief, brief images-a farmhouse, a man with a long sword, wineskins being devoured, the taste of red wine (not blood, then), a bearded pygmy (pygmies, here! Whatever next) scampering away, all with a bizarre, blue tint.

This exchange, with all its flickers, kept on for some time. It was Rufus-it would be Rufus-who broke it. Mustering his courage and Roman fortitude, he coughed politely.

Both boy and dragon turned as one. Both minds projected.

"Well-Publius Cassius, please translate-well," he said, cane gripped in both hands, "this is all very charming. The Draco's name-Saffira, you tell me? Very good. Well, it's a pleasure." Surprisingly, there was no protocol to greet a dragon, so this was probably as polite as anyone could get. "A veritable pleasure. I never expected to see one. But, you see, we-" he made an expressive gesture-"have travelled far. Very far. From Rome, you see." Flaccus was finding it extremely difficult to keep up with this, and was struck with a problem: how to explain Rome? How could just one word mean so much? He cast around in his mind-the Flavian Amphitheatre, a Legion, the Emperor, the Temple of Jupiter, a few insulae, the walls of Rome-before finally settling on… well, nothing.

"So," Rufus went on, blissfully unaware of his Legate's difficulties, "we would appreciate it if we could have somewhere to camp. Somewhere quite large, for there are a fair few of us. Five thousand one hundred and twenty men, plus camp followers!" This was a slight exaggeration; recruiting difficulties, desertion, and those barbarian infested tunnels had probably whittled their numbers down significantly. "And would it be too much to ask if you could do it quickly? We thank you. All Rome," and at this he pounded his fist to his chest, like a senator at full flow, "will thank you."

This-or, at least, the essence of it-was conveyed by a tired mind, that had seen much that it wished to forget. As such, it took a few moments for man and dragon to work out exactly what was being said to them.

"I had a pet snake once," Pulcher said, in an undertone. "Ratted like anything, beautiful little thing. From the East, they told me, but I doubt that. They're supposed to be several yards long, or something. I gave it my own wine, my own food, even its own ear rings! It died," he finished lamely, without knowing that almost no one had listened to a word. "Anyway, the point is that this one is very much bigger."

"The lads had a dog once, sir," Strabo agreed. "Big bitch of a thing. You met her, sir. I picked her up in Britain. I gave her the choicest cuts of meat, the best sips of water and wine. Even doormice." His eyes flickered briefly over to Flaccus before continuing. "But she's gone now, I suppose. Needed no earrings that one, only a few arses to nip if she got bored." He sighed. "I can almost see her."

"I feel for you," Pulcher said, without sounding like it. "I, too, can see it before me." He rubbed his eyes. "Actually, I can. With that woman, and a horse that looks alarmingly like mine."

"Oh yeah." Strabo squinted towards the tunnel entrance. "So it is! Maxima!"

Arya had emerged, with three soldiers (all looking somewhat dazed), three horses, four nervous slaves, and-to the delight of the entire century, who let up a tired cheer-one overjoyed British mastiff. The latter gamboled over to Strabo, and was immediately submerged under a mass of soldiers, all patting, stroking, scratching, and so on. Pulcher jerked away.

"Whatever is the matter, Gnaeus Aurelius?" Rufus asked. He removed his helmet, and scratched at his bald head.

"Dogs," Pulcher said, "frighten me."

"Ah."

Bucephalus gracefully accepted a sugar lump from its saddlebag. It had crashed into the tunnels, appropriately enough, with Flaccus' four other slaves. Flaccus met them all with more or less equal pleasure-a handshake here, a pat there-and turned to Pulcher. "I am complete, Gnaeus Aurelius," he said, smiling thinly. "Quite complete."

"Apart from our beds."

"Of course. Now, my men, are any of you hurt? Is Bucephalus? Nothing too major?" Publicor Secundus, Flaccus' groom, had a black eye and a gashed knee from a fall, and the other slaves had various smaller cuts, but these weren't judged to be that important. "Good. Now, Spurius Julius, I see that you questioning has had some fruit."

After a brief deliberation, it seemed that Eragon, Arya, and Saphira had collectively decided that enough was enough. Mactator, being Mactator, opted to stay behind at the tunnel entrance, to direct anyone who emerged later out of the tunnels. He was cheerfully left to do so by the others (with Flaccus ordering four men to stay with him, and promising that firewood would be brought.) As for the rest, they formed a marching column, and followed the dragon. Flaccus swung onto his horse, and really did feel complete. Exhausted, but complete. Bucephalus, slaves, troops, of whom more would follow. What else did he need for now?

The column was slow, almost silent. No trumpets or drums, just the tramping of sandals on cold hard stone. Saphira occasionally made a strange, muffled grunt, and Eragon would sometimes say something to Arya (who never replied.) Everyone else was too tired to speak. Presently, they arrived at a pair of vast gates. A bearded watchman took a look through an improbably low viewing slit. He took one look at the Draco, and turned. Flaccus could vaguely imagine the desperate orders being barked, and sleeping soldiers being mustered, as the gates ground open. He had a vague impression of pygmies-pygmies!-shouldering axes and forming up. Their leader, with a hammer and stars on his small round shield, soon set his men into a march after a brief consultation with Eragon. With a discipline astonishing for such barbarians, his men obeyed, boots tramping through deserted streets. Flaccus had a vague impression of vast, golden griffons nestling alongside austere stone houses; a city, in short, asleep.

The sight of fine jewels put a thought into his mind. He turned to Pulcher. "Gnaeus Aurelius?"

"Yes?"

"That stone of yours. It started this business after all, and I would very much like to know where it's got to."

"Ah! It's on me somewhere, I am quite sure. Can I borrow…"

"Publicor Secundus! You will help the Tribunus Laticlavus with his saddlebags." Slave and tribune rummaged through their bags, and his pack.

"It's funny," Pulcher said after a few moments, "but I can't find it." He looked contrite. "I'm sorry… sir." Sir? It was only sir when he really meant it.

"Quite alright, Gnaeus Aurelius. There are other jewels out there."

But not, it seemed, to Arya. Her mind, it seemed, had been wondering, and had settled on the image of the stone like a hunter to prey. She started shouting angrily, and almost drew her sword again. Eragon started shouting back, and the column halted, and the entire street presently flew into life as shutters opened, and neighbors bickered noisily, and cheered at the Draco.

A more perceptive man than a tired Flaccus would have inferred much into this. But, instead, he waved his arms around, and shouted, and eventually a measure of quiet returned to the city, and the march went on in grim silence.

It went on for another hour or so. At one point, they marched right up to a vaulted chamber full of shattered shards of a silvery sapphire, before turning back, with the dwarf cursing loudly, and Eragon looking shifty. But, in the end, they arrived at a large house, of grey stone. The golden hammer and stars above the door seemed to match the chief pygmy's shield. After much gesturing, Flaccus deduced that they were to rest here.

The house seemed quite empty. It was all poky rooms, with strange lanterns danced before his eyes. There were no frescos, and few couches. But none of that mattered. Flaccus claimed the first bedroom they came to, and-after getting Publicor Diapente, his armourer, to remove his breastplate, sword belt and pteruges, he fell asleep immediately.

***

The next morning came all too early. It brought showers, and a small crowd of people in the front hall. In the latter respect, it was much the same as Rome.

Publicor Tertius was told to take their names whilst his superiors prepared for the "rigors of the day". For the legionaries, this meant a long lie in. For the executors, this meant getting dressed.

Another century's worth of men had turned up during the night, good evidence that Mactator was doing his job well. Better still, one of them claimed to have seen supply wagons being forced through the tunnels. "They'll be along in the afternoon," he said, wolfing down what appeared to be an entire loaf as he did so. "Queer folk these pygmies, ain't they?" He slathered honey onto the loaf-the larder, strangely, was well stocked-and bit in again.

The others were very much more distinguished. "Arya was amongst them, Master," Tertius said, looking at his tablet. He, in stark contrast to everyone save for Rufus, was immaculately dressed and fully shaven. "To provide translation."

"Good. And who were the other ones?" Flaccus had searched in vain for fresh fruit, but had instead settled for some sort of goat's meat with bread and a glass of wine. He leaned back on the couch. The place's Triclinium, in the barbaric fashion, was full of tables and chairs; these had been quickly replaced with couches, and food set on the floor. The other Executores lounged here, devouring whatever could be found.

"One, I believe, was last night's pygmy infantry leader. He introduced himself as Orik, a Prince of their Clan Ingetium."

"Ah. Is he being well cared for?"

"Last time I looked, he was in the company of three legionaries and a keg of beer. Well cared for is not the term I would use, Master. In any case, he wishes to extent King Hrothgar's greetings to the people of Rome, and welcomes us to the glittering city of Tronjheim."

"Very good." There was something about this wine that Flaccus found slightly off putting. "That requires an audience with him, doesn't it?"

"Indeed it does, Master. Indeed it does, with Orik only too happy to lead our representative to him."

"Very well. And the second?"

"A boy. A human one, without a dragon or pointy eared nymph or anything like that." Tertius flipped over the page of his tablet with a loud clack. "He introduced himself as a… Jarsha. Yes. Jarsha. He is here on behalf of the Council of Elders, which is the temporary governing body of the humans in this settlement. It sounds like a miniature, unelected Senate, with just five members."

"I see. And, of course, they too need an ambassador to pay his respects."

"I believe so, Master. There were no others of any significance; you know the sort." Flaccus did: door to door salesmen selling their tatty wares, desperate men needing a case before the Senate, beggars demanding just _one more _denarius, they went on in an unnumbered tide. To be a rich man in Rome was to be besieged by such people, at every hour of the day. How fortunate, then, that he had a century with a big dog to keep them back.

"Very well." Flaccus turned to Pulcher, who was on the central couch and tucking into what looked to be an ocean's worth of fish and mushrooms. "Gnaeus Aurelius!" Pulcher's head jerked found, a fleck of fish stuck to the cheek. He swallowed his mouthful. "I have a job for you, young man. And you, Spurius Julius."

In the end, all was settled. Mactator was still at the tunnel entrance, and would continue to observe soldiers marching from the tunnels. Centurion Agelastus, with his Century, would go to help them, and with Arya also if that was possible, and a slave to deliver hie breakfast. As men of Senatorial rank, it was down to Flaccus and Pulcher to be the Roman ambassadors; as such, they would respectively follow Orik and Jarsha to the King and Council. ("After all," Flaccus remarked, "a King of the Pygmies is almost equivalent to a Legate and Senator of Rome.") Meanwhile, Rufus was to look after things at the house. This would be the Legion's Headquarters, for the time being. He would be helped in this by Flaccus' slaves, but definitely not any stragglers who returned. They, Flaccus explained, would need their rest.

"To work, gentlemen. Now, Publicor Tertius, I have a job for you."

The Executores decided that, so as not to alarm the locals into believing the Romans a bunch of marauding barbarians by strutting around the place in full armour, it was best to appear in their togas. These were exceptionally formal and cumbersome. As such, Flaccus' slaves were all called upon to get the folds _just so_, and to wind fifteen feet of cloth into just the right way, and to desperately remove any rumples they may have suffered in transit. This left Rufus alone to find an office of some sort.

After a while of searching, he found something close enough: a largish room, with a desk and two decent sized chairs. A dark wooden cabinet dominated one wall, which proved to contain both files (unintelligible, but bizarrely using Latin script) and drinks (less so.) On the desk was a marble bust of another a bearded man, painted black. The face looked, Rufus thought to himself, almost Nubian. He glanced down at the name: _Ajihad_. Was he a philosopher? A king? Some great warrior, or statesman? Or perhaps a priest? He settled down in the chair; enough time for that one later.

The most important reason for choosing this room, of course, was that it had a decent city view. Of course, the city being underground, this was sadly limited, but pretty enough nevertheless. He could see the vast mass of humanity, in its homespun tunics and chainmail, going about in its daily business. The crowd parted, as a herd of sheep were driven on by. It could, almost, be Rome.

But everywhere one looked, there were differences. There were no shrines at any of the junctions he could make out. There were no beggars, no babies left by roadsides, no fountains overflowing and cleansing the street filth. Most of the mass of humanity was half the size, and most of that was gripping an axe: this was a city of war, rather than trade. Great wagons full to the brim of men, covered somewhat poorly with cloth, were whipped by, towed by mangy looking horses; this cloth was acquiring a dark, red stain. Corpse carts. The battle, it seemed, had been recent.

And in the middle of his reverie, he was able to make out the Romans. Jarsha, being extricated from Maxima and scampering away- "Sensible lad!" Rufus could hear Pulcher calling, and some laughter-and then the Senators. There was no other word for them now: not soldiers, but Senators of the Roman Empire. Both in their pure white togas, immaculately folded, both with the purple stripe running down them. For a moment, Rufus leaned back and felt… proud. Proud that here, in this alien city, with its strange people and creatures, that Rome still endured. That, in this foreign field, Senators still walked tall, sternly surveying the scene, left arms almost bound to their bodies, right arms free for all manner of gestures.

"I am a Roman citizen." He muttered the words, and turned back to reality. There was an ache somewhere in his back which wouldn't quite go away. Must be getting old, he thought. Damn it.

He called for Tertius, and he came. "Anything I can do for you, Master?"

"Not right now, I'm afraid. Thank Publius Cassius for the loan when he gets back."

The slave bowed, grinning. "I will be honoured, Master."

"Now, to work then. What have we here? There's something you can do for me, my good man: get me my document case. You will find it somewhere buried beneath the whirlwind of chaos that is my bedroom." He was being ironic here, and both men knew it.

"I shall do so immediately, Master. Shall I fetch your toga?"

"Absolutely not! It's a hateful, stiff bastard of a thing to wear, too hot in summer, too cold in winter, and I hate the damn thing! It must be the Iberian blood in me." Rufus was dressed in a casual tunic, with his sheathed sword leaning against the wall.

"Tronjheim is very much colder, Master. With respect, I doubt that you will feel too discomforted either way. And I thought that the Praetorian Guard wore them on duty, Master."

"Just do as I say. Suffice to say that I only learned that part of the contract too late. Goodness knows how Flaccus puts up with you."

"With difficulty, Master." Tertius left before Rufus could make a reply.

He leaned back in his chair, and wondered what he should be doing. Well, writing a report of this would do well enough. And there was always some form to be filling out, somewhere. So, when the document case returned, he bade Tertius stay. He rifled through his case, and proved himself right. "Fill these requisition forms in, would you? Mactator's barely literate, so he lends them to me for better handwriting. And get someone to start taking the names of any stragglers who turn up." He had no doubt that the ever efficient Mactator would be doing this sort of thing already, but it was good to be thorough, and he couldn't abide men standing idle.

"I shall do so immediately, Master."

"Excellent. When you are finished, come back up here, and prepare for dictation."

Much of the morning was spent with Rufus pacing up and down, scratching his bald head, and describing the previous day's exploits in as brief, clear a manner as possible. He avoided all Greek style baubles and decoration, instead giving a concise account of the events; and, no matter how he talked, Tertius followed easily, his stylus flicking away in the bizarre shorthand. His specialty. This took a couple of hours. When that was done, Tertius bade his leave, saying that his writing hand was tired. Rufus was prepared to believe that, so long as he fetched him a jug of wine or two.

He sat down, and drummed his fingers on the desk. What to do now? The wine was brought, and he took a cup or two. (These, he noticed, were made of glass. These people must have been rich.)

"What do I do?" he muttered aloud, as Tertius left, and gently closed the door behind him.

He looked intently into the bust's eyes, which were as unmoving as ever. He had an efficient secretary to do all the paperwork. If any men arrived, they would find rest in whatever room they could.

It didn't take him long to come to the conclusion that, as his grandfather said (may his shade be peaceful), industrious people made their own work. So he left the office, and spent the next hour tracking down legionaries from all manner of crafty hiding places (how big was this damned house!) and ordering them to do drill. It was against Flaccus' orders, of course, but it was so wasteful to have them eating through all those provisions in that larder, not even paying for them, and loafing about.

And so, the street outside was full of orders being barked, and men marching up and down, and jumping over obstacles in full armour. This subsided into chaos, as it emerged that there really was no garden where the men could practice, resulting in men colliding with shopkeepers and citizens. A pygmy protested loudly, waving an important looking badge with a crest on it-so, of course, it was back to the house.

But, as his grandfather had also said, work breeds activity, so it was perhaps inevitable that he would be visited in his office by a large, bearded veteran.

"And good morning to you, Tesserarius… Hectorius," Rufus said. "Some wine?"

The man nodded and took a cup. "Thank you, sir."

"So, what is it? Was the drill useful? Envigorating?"

"It was an… interesting experience, sir."

"An interesting experience. Ah yes, of course." A silence. Rufus scratched at his scalp. "Has anyone been bothering you, Tesserarius?"

"There is something, sir." The pause between something and sir was longer than necessary, obviously designed to intimidate. It failed in this regard. At least, Rufus told himself later that it did. "Our land, sir."

"Your land?"

"For veterans, sir."

"For veterans." Here it comes. "You have, I believe, served for twenty five years?" Rufus hoped this was the right man, and was gratified to find that it was.

"Indeed, sir."

"And each twenty five year veteran, of course, requires a farm, does he not?"

"Indeed, sir."

"And, seeing as we are in some foreign part of the underworld, or India, or… somewhere, then you consider these to be in danger. Is that correct?"

"Indeed, sir." A pause. "So do other lads, sir."

"I'm sure they do. Unfortunately, that is a problem I cannot presently solve or rectify. I will be frank, Tesserarius", and at this Rufus spread his arms wide, "this is an alien country to us. We know none of its laws, or its practices. We do not even know where it is relative to Rome, or Dacia. Ask your Legate, is all the advice I can give you. But if all else fails, you may be sure that we can find some land, somewhere. That is all I have to say on this, I'm afraid."

"Very well, sir." Hectorius turned, and marched out of the room, banging his head on the low ceiling.

"And don't be overeager with the mead!" Rufus called after him. "It tastes like honey, but Bacchus toys with whoever takes a sip!" He received no answer, so he resumed staring into the eyes of the bust. Another problem that he had to deal with. Or, hopefully, Flaccus would have to deal with.

He looked up to find a woman sitting opposite him, without any chaperone.

He recovered with remarkable sang froid. "Shall I pour you some wine?" he asked, offering her a cup.

She shook her head.

She was dressed in black. Black shawl, black dress. Her skin, what he could see of it, was pale-normally a sign of beauty, but not here. Her age was almost indeterminate. She could be sixteen, or sixty.

She, of course, did not speak Latin, resulting in Rufus sitting, fiddling with something.

There were black bags under her eyes, he noticed. And red, as if she had been weeping.

A mourner, then.

And this, presumably, was her house.

"My name," he said comfortingly, "is Spurius Julius Rufus." He pointed to himself, as he had seen Flaccus do. "If there is anything I could do for you, anything at all…"

She sat, watching him.

Her husband had sat here, he realized. Or her son. Or her father, even. Possibly, one was bald. Possibly, there was a resemblance, no matter how slight, which had to be held. Perhaps, the man had offered her wine here, too. And so she sat, watching the shades of memories flicker by, whilst she drifted around the house, in all those little nooks, quite out of sight…

Well, work breeds activity, and nothing drove out mourning like having something to do. Besides, he thought to himself, they could do with a good translator, and no one sprang to mind. If nothing else, any overly comical mistakes on his part could perhaps amuse. So, he held up his wine cup.

"Cup," he said, pointing. "Cup."

She grasped what he was trying to do remarkably quickly. (A shame to keep someone of this wit buried in darkness, he thought to himself. Good, for a woman.) She repeated the word. "Vas," she said, and then gave the translation.

"Very good." He tried to remember the translation, and said it. He tripped over a vowel or two, and smiled apologetically.

She smiled, weakly. He tried again.

***

It was in the early afternoon that the Senators finally returned. "It went quite well, I think," Flaccus said, seating himself on the couch and sighing with pleasure. "Excellently."

"The Council gave me some tough questions, but I saw my way through well enough," Pulcher agreed, flinging himself down. "I think some wine is in order. Or perhaps mead."

"Yes," Flaccus said. He accepted his glass, and made a toast. "To Roman diplomacy!"

Rufus sighed inwardly, knowing well his Legate's opinion of himself. A good soldier, but there was a reason why he had never achieved any great rank in the Senate. "So," he said, "what happened?" He clicked his fingers, and Tertius emerged, tablet once again at the ready.

"I was about to ask the same to you, Spurius Julius. How many of our men have returned?"

"Eight hundred and seventy three. I have sent Primoris off to secure more accommodations, with your seal."

"Excellent. Have my slaves given you any trouble?"

"None whatsoever, Publius Cassius. They're good boys."

"Very good. So. What we did in our little audiences." Flaccus took a sip of mead, and began. He, as the higher ranking officer, went first.

He had been introduced into a great throne room, he said. He had made to bow, for he knew how oriental despots liked to be flattered, but the King allowed him to remain standing.

The King, he explained, was quite unlike some decadent Xerxes. "He sat, on a great rough throne, made of black marble. He was clad not in silk, but in steel, with a great golden hammer in his hand. I couldn't help but think of that quote of Cicero's, upon seeing his short son in law: 'Who buckled Lentulus onto that sword?'"

A male pygmy mind witch was at his side to provide translation, so they began their discussion fairly swiftly. He was given a brief description of the King's ancestors, so he gave a description of his own in turn: of the great Consul, Publius Cassius Felix, who had fought against the Carthaginians with such magnificent skill and fortune. Then they had gone on to the country of the pygmies, which was a host of mountainous cities, each magnificent in its craftsmanship and stonework. Rome, of course, was not to be outdone; Flaccus had given a mental image of the Empire, with its own fine craftsmanship and stone work, but stretching around the whole Mediterranean, and even beyond.

"The King was silent for a moment after this, as if pondering something. And then he said: 'Beware, the rock changes.' Just that. A saying of some sort, I believe. He pondered a bit more, and then said that this Emperor seemed a most powerful ally for the dwarves. That is what they call themselves, by the way: not pygmies at all!"

"A man is still a man, Publius Cassius, even if he calls himself a Roman or Greek. So what happened next?"

The King had bade him leave, and said that they should meet again. In the meantime, he offered him the services of Orik, his foster son, on a guided tour. "And that," Flaccus said, "was that."

Rufus' face was unreadable. Quite blank. "And what did the Council of Elders do to you, Gnaeus Aurelius?"

Jarsha had taken him to a large chamber, from which Shadeslayer was just emerging, a Nubian looking woman in tow. "Nubian looking, Gnaeus Aurelius?" Rufus asked.

"Why d'you ask?"

"There's a bust of a Nubian looking man upstairs, in my office. Called Ajihad. How many other Nubians did you see in this city, Gnaeus Aurelius?"

"None, to be honest."

"A Nubian important enough to be on a bust… and another emerging from their Senate. We must not discount that they are somehow related. Continue, please."

Pulcher did so. He was introduced to the Council, and said he had forgotten their names. Translation was done by a pretty woman, with a bizarre golden snake around her waist. Her name, he said after a moment of silent contemplation, was Trianna.

He had been offered a seat, and accepted. Immediately, the questions and explanations. They explained that they were part of an organization known as the "Varden", which was rebelling against a vast, tyrannical Empire.

"Vast? Tyrannical? How so, Gnaeus Aurelius?" Flaccus asked, before Rufus could do the same.

A queer Empire; it was ruled by a King called Galbatorix, and had no overseas possessions. It covered a large tract of land, and contained most of the humans in Alagaesia. (That was the name of this area, apparently.) They were rebelling because, a century ago, this King had removed a previous regime of Dragon Riders- "Who apparently kept order, and rode around on dragons. I may well have missed a bit," Pulcher said apologetically. "But I'm not used to this mind trickery, you see."

"They are still rebelling?" Rufus said, incredulous. The Roman Republic had been transformed into the Empire over one hundred and twenty years ago by Divine Augustus; and even before that, it had been ruled by Julius Caesar, the dictator. The Roman Empire, it was unanimously agreed, seemed to be pretty well off, for all that.

"It seems so." This man's crimes, according to Pulcher-who again apologized for his lack of clarity of interpretation-appeared to include allying with Urgals, the creatures which had attacked them earlier, as well as various other supernatural creatures; keeping his citizens in poverty; tolerating slavery; and using torture against his enemies.

"And he has ruled for all those years?"

Indeed so. Apart from against the Varden, and their assorted allies, there appeared to have been little conflict or anything of that sort. Pulcher added that, during this time, the people of the Empire had been kept in a state of great poverty, with corrupt leaders.

"Poverty?" Flaccus exclaimed. If these Varden lived like the average Imperial citizen, then how dare they define themselves as poor? He had seen no piles of abandoned children by the streets, no great plagues sweeping through the unwashed masses. But, of course, they had not been here for long. And they disliked _slavery_?

"I may have misinterpreted that one," Pulcher said. He was bright crimson with embarrassment.

"A man who has reigned for a century without civil war is either a myth-which, seeing as no man can reign for that long, I regard as highly likely-or an incredible administrator," Flaccus said. Everyone had heard of the great Year of the Four Emperors, the Civil Wars of Julius Caesar and Divine Augustus, and the assassinations of many other Emperors. "But continue, please."

"Using those Urgals sounds pretty nasty," Pulcher said, tentatively.

"There is nothing wrong with using Auxiliaries, Gnaeus Aurelius. You should know that by now. Although I, of course, deplore their killing of our men."

"They seem to have been much like our Gauls, Germans and Carthaginians before we crushed them." Pulcher pointed out.

"All the better then, getting your worst enemies on your side!" Flaccus clambered to his feet, and began pacing. "What on earth are these people rebelling about?"

There seemed to be worse creatures that the Empire had been using, also. And they tolerated human sacrifice. This, Flaccus and Rufus agreed, was a "bad business", as was his killing and torture of dissidents.

"So what did you say to all this, Gnaeus Aurelius?" Rufus asked.

"Well," Pulcher said unconvincingly, "I privately agreed with much of what you said, Publius Cassius. But I said that it they were fighting the good fight, and that I wished them the best of luck. I was also asked to give an oath that we would not harm the Varden."

He, of course, made no such oath, because he was only the second in command. "But I made an oath to tell my commander, of course. So I gripped my balls, stepped up, and made it."

"You did _what?"_ Rufus jumped to his feet.

Pulcher had made the oath in the Roman way, and he felt that it needed a bit more firmness in front of such distinguished an audience as the Varden Senate.

"So, you… exposed yourself in front of barbarians?"

"But Spurius Julius, everyone knows our customs-"

"These people don't even know Latin! They just saw an ass in a stripy robe holding his bloody spear in their faces! And, you say, you both thought that the Varden's struggle was absurd, and that the Dwarf King was hilarious for his height?"

Flaccus and Pulcher froze, realization gradually dawning.

"Their mind reader could tell what you were thinking! They could then tell their masters that we, the Romans, masters of civilization and getting fat off their food, thought them a bunch of stunted imbeciles! You're Senators, not fishwives!"

"I think," Pulcher began to say, "that we have made a mistake."

"Indeed," Flaccus said, red faced, hand shaking.

"So," Rufus went on, at the top of his voice, "here's what you do. Both of you accept Orik's offer of a tour. You will absolutely not quote Frontius and say that all their Pyramids and Temples are useless compared to proud Roman Aqueducts! You will admire every inch of that city out there! You will compliment everyone who even looks at you! And only then, maybe, we can dig our way out of this." He took a furious breath. "And I," he added, "will have a cup of wine, with an acquaintance of mine."

Both men were so stunned that they obeyed him.

Fortunately, Rufus needn't have worried. Tronjheim had many structures, and statues, and jewels, to compliment. The great Star Sapphire was duly remarked upon, and its destruction duly lamented. And-oh joys of joys-there were baths!

Not, as Flaccus may have uncharitably pointed out, up to the high standards of Nero's Baths. But they would do for now, at least.

* * *

Any comments? That took a while to write, but I hope it was worth it!

Glossary

Triumph: A parade, which celebrated the achievements of a military commander. To earn one, a commander had to have killed five thousand enemies, to have won a great victory, to be a senior elected magistrate, and to have been given the Emperor's permission. The general (in red paint to represent Jupiter) would ride in a chariot, along with his male relatives and a slave reminding him that he was still mortal, and a select few troops would march behind it through the streets of Rome. (Usually, these were his oldest veterans, who had been through the required 25 years of service, and should thus be given land.) With them, they would bring loot (be it treasure, animals-Elephants, if you could fit them through the gates of Rome, were popular-or people such was prisoners of war, Greek athletes, enemy leaders, or whatever), and often floats depicting scenes of the campaign. At the end of the procession at the Temple of Jupiter, sacrifices were made, and prisoners executed. The triumphant leader would often follow this up with games, feasting, holidays, and even actual rewards to the Roman people, all paid for from his own pocket (usually meaning the treasuries where his army had looted.)

Julius Caesar, for example, gave each male citizen two modii of wheat (half a bushel of wheat), two pounds olive oil, and four hundred sesterces. Originally, this was meant to be three hundred, but there was a delay, so another hundred was added on. Roughly, the money alone was the rough equivalent of £2,000 each. In addition, he laid on five days of animal fights, gladiatorial games, mock naval battles, and plays throughout the city (in "every language".) As well as this, he gave his veterans 24,000 sesterces (about £120,000) each, and remits on the rent of citizens throughout Rome and Italy. Understandably, it was an honour to be a triumphant general. Equally, it made a Roman citizen feel proud to be a citizen. His country's armies were victorious, his city as magnificent as any on earth, his bread dole came from the finest granaries in Alexandria, and even his slaves fought and died honourably in the arenas. And now a fraction of the world's riches and wonders were being brought to his delight and delectation! I'm sorry if that sounded too Rome fanboyish or anything.

Helios: The Sun God.

Flavian Amphitheatre: The Colosseum.

Draco: An interesting little fact that I didn't know when starting this story: the dragon was a symbol of the Dacian Army, which fought against the Romans. It used on their standards, and was later adopted by Roman cavalry units as their own battle standard (in both cases a windsock like arrangement, rather than a typical flag.) Later, it was adopted as the standard for each cohort.

Insulae (singular Insula): A Roman apartment building.

Numidia: An area of Southern Egypt, often thought to contain what we could call "black" people. Currently part of the Roman Empire.

Bacchus: Roman god of wine.

Xerxes: A name used by many Persian Emperors. Persians were considered as typical examples of decadent orientals: wealthy, but unbelievably soft and effeminate.

Frontius: The same Sextus Julius Frontius (40-103 AD) as the one who wrote the _Stratagems_ which have yielded some handy military anecdotes. He was also a governor of Britannia, and later a Water Commissioner in Rome. He wrote _De Aquaeductu_, which was a Roman report about aqueducts: and his precise quote referred to is: "Such a variety of structures carrying water from so many places. Comare this, please, with the pointless pyramids, or the useless (though decorative!) constructions of the Greeks!"

Roman military organization:

As the story goes on, the Legion is more likely to be assembled en masse, so here's a quick rundown of its organization:

-Eighty men and twenty slaves to a century.

-Six centuries to a cohort. The First Cohort is larger than the others with eight hundred men, and guards the Legion's Eagle. (The Primus Pilus commands the First Century of these into battle, as well as acting as the Legate's advisor.) Each had its own complex hierarchy of Centurions.

-Ten cohorts to a Legion.

In addition, there were usually attachments of Auxilia (units without Roman citizenship, but still part of the Empire, who often fulfilled duties the Romans were particularly poor at-Syrian archers and Alan cavalry, for example, were common), cavalry, and artillery. Of course, there were usually shortages due to desertion and suchlike. When Flaccus says the Legion is 5120 men strong, he is talking theoretically.


	4. I: A Breathing Space

And so, we return to our heroes, in Chapter 4. As ever, there will be a lengthy preamble.

Firstly, to the man of mystery who is pie (), I have not read the Videssos Cycle.

Secondly, some eagle eyed (or pedantic, depending on your point of view) may have noticed my characters using our system of time. I don't remember either way whether they have mentioned what time of day it is yet, but anyway, here it is: I will be using our system of time. The Roman system is known (a twelve hour day, and an eight "watch" night.) However, I-and, dare I say, it my readers-probably share a limited tolerance for needless Roman related jargon. In addition, I'm not sure of how this is affected by days lengthening or shortening for the Summer or Winter.

Thirdly, a little warning: this chapter is likely to be the tedious in betweeney chapter that sets our heroes off on the main plot. It is necessary, and possibly dull. I'll try to keep things exciting enough. Please read and review!

"_I won't force you to look at girls from iniquitous Cadiz waggling their hips through their lascivious dances; instead, little Condylus, my slave, will play the flute." Martial, Epigrams 78._

The first thing that many a legionary was to ask after staggering through the hellish dungeons, led by lanterns and strange men in robes (or, in some cases, a strange woman in leather, with ears longer than needles and just as pointed), and with their comrades helping them along, was: "Did Scipio get out okay?"

Mactator, with black bags under his eyes and a much used wineskin at his side (but still stubbornly remaining at his post) would look at his list. He would then shout at a clerk until he got to the right name. And then, more often than not, he would say "No. But these Vardeners are still looking. That's their country, see."

This would partly answer the second question: "Sir, Where are we?"

Mactator would explain that this is a bit complicated; "We're not in Vardenland at all. This is pygmy country. Tronjheim."

The third question came quickly. "So, what do I do now sir?"

The first answer was usually to join your Century or Turma over there and register yourself. Mactator would have already ticked the soldier's name off.

The final question, after the soldier had arrived, was: "So, what do we do now then?"

The answer varied more than a little depending on which officer was present, or still living. Some barked out drill instructions immediately, after giving the soldier a cursory chunk of bread or sip of wine. Others would ask him to "Go over there, there's a good fellow. Our lads have bought up just about every fish in this wretched mountain, and every last scrap of wine and bread that was to be found." A slight exaggeration, but it would serve for the long line of stalls that had been erected, with slaves standing behind them serving bread, fish, wine, and whatever else the legionary's war chest could afford.

But, what to do after that was another matter entirely.

The sick men had been taken away to Medicus Qunitus Porcius Cato, who turned up late on the second day with his entire staff safe and sound, gripping his bloodied bone saw in one hand and his gladius in the other. "I came, I saw, I bloody well conquered," he muttered through gritted teeth, and wiped his ruddy face on the back of his hand. "Casparius Hadrian, get the tent ready over there. We have some wounded, I shouldn't wonder." He was a man of few words, and few emotions, being a "perfect stoic until things started going wrong", in Cicero's words. He was, in a word, square: square headed, square bodied with tunic and armour, and rigid in outlook. "Right, you buggers. To work!" He poured a trickle of water into a clay bowl, and cleaned his hands. "Could we have some mattresses, sir?" he asked Mactator, who was looking at him in something approaching awe. "Mine got hacked up by those horned bastards." He spat on the ground.

"You were attacked, Quintus Porcius?" Mactator asked, curious.

"Sixteen of 'em. Trust an anatomist to know where to stick his knife, even if the target's inhuman." The Medicus gave a harsh laugh. "Casparius Severus! I don't see you getting your bloody poultices ready. Vejovis alive, but you've only been awake for a few hours and fought a couple of sheep headed barbarians. MOVE IT!"

He got his mattresses, paid well, and set to work. Sleep, he claimed, was an unnecessary luxury with the wounded nearby. As such, his men only slept in a rota, with a couple of hours per man; and, as soldiers, they dropped off immediately, no matter how lurid the screams from the hospital tents.

But, if unhurt, it soon emerged that finding something to do was quite immensely difficult.

There was the old favourite of officers, drilling. The moment Flaccus, in a burst of activity, revealed that there was indeed a drill hall, one could almost hear the brains of Centurions, Optios, and Tesserarii whirring into action, and their men sighing softly. But, inexplicably, they were always waved away by a large man in an ox hide suit, who introduced himself as Fredric. (The nickname "Lord and Lady Ox-hide" swiftly sprang up for Fredric, most likely from Pulcher.) This led to the curses of officers, and sudden surge of tired men, stretched to the end of their tether by their time in the tunnels, who-after asking their officers permission (which, wearily, they usually granted) slipped off into the city with whatever coin they could muster, and an eye for bars, brothels, and whatever else could be found.

Sadly, Tronjheim proved to be lacking in most respects. Every tavern that could be found proved to be designed for people several feet shorter than the average Roman. This, although the mead was exceptionally strong, proved to be quite a disadvantage. Similarly, brothels-legionaries seemed to have a natural talent for finding these (or, at least when questioned, knew someone who did.) However, the ladies were all several feet shorter than what even the most frustrated soldier could stomach. (The joke was that they'd rather be in their tomb than go with a pygmy tomb walker.)

And the whatever else was only a marginal improvement. The architecture, of course, was magnificent. Soldiers were often reported as asking their centurions, in a nervous voice whether this somehow mightier than Rome itself. (The centurions would always say "Of course not-oriental decadence, that's all!" before talking to someone who had actually been to Rome to confirm it.) Every golden griffon, or shattered jewel, was gawped at by crowds of men, at every spare moment. But, gradually, the crowds thinned. Men got used to the glitter, and found that it failed to block out memories of tunnel fighting and death, and roaring, bestial faces, where a cup of something strong would do so much better. And, apart from the architecture, there was nothing to do. No chariot races. No gladiators. No dancing girls.

And no theatre, which was where Pulcher came in. On the fourth day, he announced to Flaccus that he would be taking a dramatic step to restore morale. "Bored men," he said, "start acting mutinously. You told me that once, Publius Cassius, and I remembered every word." Flaccus could tell that he was trying to be as serious and soldierly as possible. He decided, just this once, to take him seriously. This evaporated in the next two sentences. "As such, I have decided to take steps to avoid any unrest. I will improve the morale, Publius Cassius, by staging an amateur production of Aristophanes' _Lysistrata_."

"I beg your pardon?" Flaccus asked, wondering if he had misheard. He leaned forward in his chair. He had borrowed Rufus' office for the time being, and had set him to work organizing grindstones, forges, and parties to reassemble pila, Mactator of course having other duties.

"I, Publius Cassius, using the men of our glorious Legion, will stage a production of _Lysistrata_."

"Gnaeus Aurelius, it is your duty to learn from the Legate, so as you can conduct your duties for Rome in a fitting manner, and go onward to great things later in your life. I, Gnaeus Aurelius, am the Legate. As such, I must teach you that this is the most nonsensical thing I have ever heard." Flaccus did his utmost to keep his voice level; he was caught halfway between finding the entire concept hilarious, and a waste of time unbecoming of a Roman officer to even consider.

"Morale is vital, sir," Pulcher said stubbornly. It was only "sir" in difficult situations, of course.

"So is your dignity. I cannot even begin to list all the problems with this idea." Flaccus did so anyway. "The play is in Greek; and not everyone, in case you haven't noticed, has had the advantages of your excellent education." The irony, of course, was entirely lost on Pulcher.

"I have a translation," he said vaguely.

"You have no women," Flaccus countered.

"When did that stop the Greeks from doing _anything_?" Pulcher said, smiling broadly. "And, besides, you are incorrect. I have my slave girl, Gnaeipa." Uniquely amongst the Legion's mounted members, his ten slaves had emerged from the tunnels with their horses alongside them-some cut about, but otherwise quite healthy. Two of Pulcher's slaves had been riding in Gnaepa's customary carriage, due to wounds; but he didn't seem too worried about them. ("By Hercules, but I know a bargain!" were his precise words, presumably for both horse and slave. "As loyal as hounds, and half the price.")

"You have no padded costumes, no theatre, no actors, nothing!" Flaccus clambered to his feet, and started pacing. "And most of all, young man, no time. We are a busy Legion, with much to do. You will attend to your labours which are, I believe, assisting Praefectus Castrorum Mactator in rounding up our men. You will attend to whatever he considers wise. You will not dash around with plays."

"But we are a busy Legion with _time off_," Pulcher said. "And we need something to do in it. Sir," he added when he saw Flaccus' face and posture. Flaccus had planted his left foot on an empty chair, and had clasped one hand to his knee, elbow rigidly upright, head magnificently raised, like some virtuous Republican statue.

"To your business, Tribunus Laticlavius," said the statue, with what it took to be a voice of command. Pulcher left.

Flaccus started pacing the moment the door closed.

"You know, Master, that he will conduct rehearsals anyway," Tertius said accurately, without even looking up from his note taking.

"Indeed," Flaccus said firmly. "But I, for the record, have given my refusal." He sighed. "He will just have to learn himself of the loss of dignity. I have, of course, done all I can."

"Of course, Master."

"I know that voice, Tertius. You don't believe anything of the sort."

"I am but a humble slave, Master."

Someone knocked.

Both men looked up. Tertius answered the door. "Primus Pilus Spurius Julius Rufus," he announced.

Rufus stepped in, and immediately spouted out some bizarre gibberish.

"You are ill in the throat, Spurius Julius," Flaccus said irritably. "I would advise you to seek Quintus Porcius; his medicines are most potent."

"I am saying Ave to you, sir, in the language of the Varden," Rufus said.

There was a pause. "Go on," Flaccus said. "Tertius, take minutes."

"I already am, Master."

Rufus turned and called out some more gibberish. A woman entered soundlessly; a pale wisp of a thing, dressed in black. "This," he said, "is Gydrynne. Now, say Ave."

"Ave, Publius Cassius," she said haltingly.

"Very well done, madam. Did he teach you?" Flaccus fumbled around for something to offer her, only to find that Tertius already had a wineskin ready. She took it. She drank.

"He taught me to recognize the man with the quiff," she said. A snort escaped Tertius; this was quickly silenced by Flaccus' glare.

"She learns well," Rufus said admiringly. "Better than I can at her language, I fear. I try, though." He spoke a few more words to her, and sat down opposite Flaccus' desk.

"Indeed? You have done well, Spurius Julius." And, for once, Flaccus actually meant it. But there was just one thing. "About these language lessons, though. How did you find her?"

"She came up to me in this very office. This is her house, Publius Cassius."

Her house! "You mean, of course, her Father's?"

Rufus winced. "He is dead," Gydrynne said shortly.

"What about your brother's, or husband's?"

"They are dead. As are my sons…" she gulped feverishly at the wine.

"She has no male relatives, Publius Cassius," Rufus explained. "All were killed fighting those… those Urgals, in a recent battle. She drifts around her house, and its memories."

"I see. So, when you have been taking these language lessons, how have you found time to conduct your paperwork, as I instructed?"

Tertius smiled ruefully and raised his hand. "I fear that I rebelled, Master," he said. "I declare myself forfeit before your indescribable wrath, and can only hope that your punishment is just and merciful."

"It will be, Publidor Tertius. Now, as for Spurius Julius here." Flaccus put callused a hand on his shoulder. "You have disobeyed my orders, Primus Pilus. I know not how it is done in the Praetorian Guards, but it is frowned upon in the Legions."

"It is the same in the Guards, sir," Rufus said.

"As such, you will be punished. Your punishment is to spend your days, until I see fit for it to end, drawing up a… a guide to this language, with Gydrynne here. You will take your meals with her, rather than your brother officers. You will work through the night, if needs be, until it is complete. Is that understood? And, Spurius Julius, you will ensure that her virtue remains entirely intact, on your head be it. Do you comprehend me?"

"Entirely, sir." Rufus smiled briefly.

"Very well. You will commence work straight away."

Rufus offered Gydrynne his arm; she declined, and stood herself. The pair of them left the room side by side.

The door clicked shut.

"He's like that, I have found," Rufus said, in the tongue of the Varden. "Very… stern… seeming."

"Yes," Gydrynne said. "He does try hard."

There was a sudden howl of pain, sharp and swift. A muffled blow.

"What was that?" Gydrnyye asked, hands reaching to her throat.

Another yelp. Another blow.

"It came from in the office," Gydrynne said. Her husband's office. Maxim's.

"Ah." Rufus seemed entirely unconcerned. "Let us get to…our works."

"But…"

"Publius Cassius, I believe, is giving his… just and merciful punishment." Another blow. "It is of no concern to us."

"But…"

"Go. Now." Rufus grasped her arm, and steered away. He had forgotten that her organization fought against slavery.

"YOU WILL NEVER FAIL TO TELL ME ANYTHING OF IMPORTANCE AGAIN!" a voice thundered. "DO YOU COMPREHEND ME, SLAVE?"

A mutter.

"LOUDER!"

"Yes."

Another blow. "YES, 'MASTER'!"

The echoing was cut off as Rufus entered his bedroom, Gydrynne close behind, and closed the door firmly.

That night, Flaccus dreamed of his wife.

It was their villa on the Bay of Naples. He knew this with the strange vividness of dreams, although it seemed far, far brighter and more open than usual. Sunlight gushed through every wide open shutter, gleaming off every white stone wall, with every inch of marble floor polished to perfection. Even the little strings of flowers, dangling down from their little frames, seemed to shine.

She stood there; tall, gawky, dark haired, modestly dressed, with one of her smiles. Her rare smiles. Rare, because he rarely made her smile. He knew this, knew it well. Even his dream self knew that, which was perhaps why he started sobbing immediately.

"Lie lightly on her, Earth, she was never heavy on you."

One of Martial's epigrams. Her favorites. He knew that, at least.

"Yes," he found himself saying, and then his daughters were there. The three of them: Cassia, Cassilla, Cassia Minor.

"Lie lightly on her, Earth, she was never heavy on you."

"Yes," his dream self said, with the clarity of dreams. "Yes."

"Lie lightly on her, but rise."

And so, he did; he awoke.

It was the dead of night. His room was Spartan. A trunk. A small desk, a cupboard, a chair. Each casting a shadow terrifying in its near absence. This was underground. No sun to cast them; just the dim glow of the infernal red lanterns.

And Tertius heard a knocking at his door.

His Master, he presumed. Automatically, he rose from bed, and reached for his tablet and stylus.

He was right. Even though the Master rarely even knocked.

"A poky room, this," Flaccus said awkwardly. He tugged at his tunic sleeve.

Met with silence, he seemed to waver for a moment. And then: "Let us… not speak of what happened today again."

"My punishment is just and fair, Master. I am but a slave." He tried his utmost to keep his voice neutral.

Flaccus seemed about to say something. "Oh, but… No matter. I overreacted… but your crime… never mind. Let us go on, forging ahead, without any more crimes, or any more violence resulting. Yes." He petered out there.

"Thank you, Master," Tertius said, unsure of what else to say.

"Good night." And Flaccus left. He felt that the dream was sent by the Gods, not to warn him of an impending fate, but to remember what he had, and how lucky he was to possess it.

But even so, as he clambered into bed again, he muttered to himself: "By Hercules, I need a son."

Neither man mentioned the incident again, thinking that it was some sort of dream.

By the end of the week, the Legion totaled 3603 foot soldiers, of all ranks; 40 intact pieces of artillery, with their full complement of crew; 1208 slaves, with the majority of the appropriate supply wagons; and 95 cavalrymen, of whom only eighty seven still had horses.

"We have suffered a butcher's bill of about 400 men, Publius Cassius: both dead, and seriously injured." Mactator snapped his tablet shut.

"It could have been worse," Flaccus said. "Far worse. You are quite sure that there are no others still down there?" He started pacing, slowly.

"The Vardeners have looked, Publius Cassius. And their water would be running out by now."

"Yes. Quite." Flaccus started pacing again. "They laid down their lives for Rome, and for their comrades. They will be sorely missed; but such is the existence of a soldier. Fragile, brutal, and short."

Mactator didn't even dignify this with a response. "In addition, I have a request from Medicus Qunitus Porcius Cato, Sir. He urgently needs supplies of garlic, of yarrow, and of uva ursi leaves, due to the recent influx of the wounded."

"I shall send Rufus at it. No, he is learning to speak in tongues; I shall send Pulcher at it. He always has a way with people."

"Indeed." No Sir. That meant Flaccus had done something wrong. He realized immediately.

"Trusting him with money-a bad idea, do you think?"

"He has a way with purses, sir."

"Indeed he has, Marcus Thorius. And he does not speak the language. Very well. I shall send you at it. Take Gydrynne. The thing I am fast realizing about this country," he added ruefully, "is that unlike in Rome, one can trust their womenfolk to do next to anything. Fight with swords, learn our beautiful language, lead organisations, whatever springs to mind, although they may well argue most vigorously if it displeases them. No wonder that they make such degenerate children as these pygmies. Like double breasted Amazons, most of them."

Mactator nodded, smiling wryly. He knew their spirit. "They are a people at war, sir."

"Quite so, Marcus Thorius. Quite so." Flaccus kept pacing for a few more moments. "Well, to your task, man. To your task! I cannot abide idleness, and well you know it."

"There has been talk, sir."

"About pensions?"

"Quite so, sir. And how we are supposed to be using the pension fund to buy supplies, sir."

"Well, Marcus Thorius, I will not lie to you. Cash is getting extremely tight at the moment." Flaccus stopped his pacing, and turned to face him. "It may well come to that, in the near future, and I know full well that we could have a mutiny on our hands if word gets around. So, Mactator, here is my other task for you. Crush these rumours. And, if possible, persuade the men to be a bit more frugal. Their pay is going to be in arrears, I daresay. That dog of ours, Maxima, could start by going on a diet or several. How much damned steaks can a beast want?"

"It's like a farmer before market day compared to the other hounds, Sir. They're cuttlefish eaters, all of 'em. And the fighting cocks, the ratting snakes, and the horses."

"Quite so." It took 18000 pounds of grain, 12,000 gallons of water, and 40,000 pounds of animal forage to feed a Legion per day, and every grain and drop was another blow to their finances. "Tell them to thin their beasts, or to eat them. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir. The lads won't take it well, but they'll understand. One more thing, Sir."

"Say it, Marcus Thorius."

"Have you heard of this play of Gnaeus Aurelius'?"

"He's actually doing it, then?" Tertius was not surprised in the slightest, nor was he surprised to hear his Master tip back his head and cry _"O Tempora! O Mores!" _

The next summons came from a herald, wearing a most brightly patterned tabard, compensated for by a lack of Latin, suntan, or tolerance for dogs.

Maxima was only reluctantly (both in its own mind, and Strabo's) removed from his leg. "He seems to be suggesting," said Rufus after he had stopped struggling to contain his laughter, "that another meeting with the Lady Nasuada is in order."

"Suggesting, sir?" Centurion Agelastus asked.

"A suggestion from these people is all but an urge, with a sword at our throat. We are living in their land, you must remember. And our esteemed Senators made an ass of themselves, as well as Bacchus knows how many drunken legionaries."

"Did they, sir? My men claim to have been well behaved."

"I'm afraid they did, Centurion. Men claim many things." Rufus sighed.

"A denarius for them, sir."

"I will doubtless have to accompany whichever august Senator chooses to put himself forward. That, alas, will mean that I will wear my toga. At least that bloody man Spuricor has turned up at last." Rufus only had one slave, an ill tempered Gaul with an eye for drink, another for illicit gold, and none for his Master's welfare. "To work, then."

To his complete lack of surprise, it was none other than Senator Publius Cassius Flaccus, Legate, who stepped forward. Once again, he strode forth togate, with Rufus walking stiffly behind. Unlike the last time, however, they had a woman with them.

Gydrynne had laughed long and loud after hearing about Pulcher's conduct. She had laughed tearfully, from grief and mirth, and had even kept away from the wine for the rest of their meeting. "What a Cunnus!" she had said, and then noticed Rufus' shocked expression. "What? You think him clever?"

"Not at all; but where did you get that term from?" Rufus would remember going into obscenities, for he considered himself a polite and urbane man.

"Oh, one of your soldiers bumped into me. A Strabo. He gave me lessons about certain parts of your interesting language." Gydrynne reached for the wine skin, and stopped herself. "That means 'idiot'."

Rufus had decided that the lesson was best concluded at that point.

"I expect you to translate, madam" he explained as they went, "in terms that I can understand." He was beginning to get used to the inevitable mass of gold and statues on every street corner, but there was always something that caught him out; this time, a little hammer, with stars surrounding it, worked in solid quartz.

"I cannot see how telling you the direction to the tavern will help in grand politics," she replied in her own tongue, "but I will do my best."

"Very good." Tertius had been right, Rufus thought to himself as they rounded a final corner, and came to a great cedar door. A toga was more comfortable in the cool of Tronjheim.

The herald knocked once. "The foreigners, My Lady," Rufus heard her say.

"Let them enter."

The herald opened the door, and ushered the little group inside.

The study was very much larger than that of Gydrynne's house; and disconcertingly light, despite the lack of windows. What it shared, though, was a hefty wooden desk. Behind this stood two people: a small, young Nubian looking woman (who, after a moment of thought, Rufus recognized as Nasuada); and a wiry man with a military bearing. He offered his hand (which, after a moment's hesitation, Flaccus shook vigorously), and introduced himself as Jormundur.

Introductions were made via Gydrynne. Immediately, Nasuada held her by the hand, and spoke to her.

"Translate, Spurius Julius," Flaccus said.

"The Lady Nasuada is consoling her for her lost menfolk," Rufus said unhesitatingly. He had learned those phrases after frequent practice. "They served the Varden well, in peace and war, in matters mundane and… religious? Magical. Like that mind-speaking business I believe, Publius Cassius. She is also inquiring as to how we have behaved, and whether her pension is sufficient. Apparently, we acquitted ourselves as True Romans"- at this, Gydrynne paused briefly, for the translation was not literal-"ought to, and the pension is holding up." A white lie to her Ladyship, he thought to himself. From what he had been told, the pension would only hold out after she sold her house, and most of her possessions and heirlooms.

"Very well done, Spurius Julius." Flaccus unconsciously ran his hand through his quiff, to ensure that it was firmly in place. "And, I believe, we are to be seated. That requires no translation, I believe, and you may tell that to Gydrynne." The Herald moved three low wooden chairs in front of the desk, bowed, and left.

They sat down. Here it comes, Rufus thought. The Toga forced its wearer to sit bolt upright, as regal as any king, and as uncomfortably as a Carnifex's victim. Flaccus, of course, reveled in it. He tucked one foot behind the other, placed his left hand across his lap, and generally resembled another old statue: _The Senator_, or _Scipio Africanus_, or _Cato the Younger_. There was a knack to accepting power and authority, which Rufus considered absent from himself.

But not absent from Nasuada. The moment the Roman party had seated themselves, Nasuada leaned forward in her chair, and said:

"You, gentlemen, have ruined my plans."

"I beg your pardon?" Flaccus asked incredulously, when the translation was given. Rufus knew not to repeat his translation; he was himself surprised.

"We were preparing to march, gentlemen. We were getting ready to move out, to attack Galbatorix's tyranny. Our gallant Dragon Rider, Eragon, was supposed to have left by now, on a journey of the greatest importance. Our wagons were being hitched, our soldiers readying their packs and horses; and suddenly, we have the problem of several thousand men appearing out of nowhere, lost in the midst of our tunnels, many wounded and hungry and drink-loving. We have wasted seven days, gentlemen. And I do not waste seven days without a good reason."

She was trying extremely hard, Rufus gave her that. Her young eyes bored into each of theirs in turn, unblinking; her voice, although he had little appreciation of the language, never wavered. He risked a glance at Jormundur; that was approval in his eyes, he was sure of it.

"Lady," Flaccus replied, as hotly and quickly as Gydrynne and Rufus could fumble a translation, "it was no fault of Rome, or of Romans, that the ground gave way beneath our feet. For how long, Lady, do you seek to indulge in this slander? Why do you seek to undermine Roman Dignitas? Is it always the case that you seek to greet your guests in this matter? And…"

Fortunately, his speech was only partially translated. What Nasuada heard was: "Lady, it was no fault of Rome, or of Romans, that the ground gave way beneath our feet. We had no wish to inconvenience you." This was only in part because Rufus lacked the Alagaesian, and Gydrynne the Latin.

She seemed to accept that translation. "Nevertheless, your Romans have taken a great deal of time to sort out. Provosts have reported no less than four hundred incidents of drunken assault, vandalism, and other such crimes. The people grow tired of watching men marching up and down their streets, whilst they attempt to go about their business. Du Vrangr Gata do not appreciate going to the great lengths of sending out their best and brightest to your hospital tents, only to have them shunted aside by your surgeons. One group of people, however, exalts in your presence. Military suppliers." She did not tell them, of course, that they had been inflating their prices the moment they had glimpsed a red crest. "And that is why, gentlemen, this week has not been a complete waste."

"That is fortunate," Flaccus said caustically.

"Indeed." Nasuada continued to match his gaze. "We have, as your men may know, fought a battle of late. We were victorious, but it was a costly victory. Your men, Flaccus, ran into enemy stragglers."

"Publius Cassius," Flaccus said, "is the informal mode. We ran into horned beasts, and two bald men."

That threw her. It threw Gydrynne pretty far too. "Bald men?"

"Two short, identical bald men, who made off with our Aquila standard, and froze its guards like Medusa. Your battle is not yet won, I fear, until those men are crushed."

Jormundur, who had kept silent, seemed to explode into speech. "He believes those men dead," Gydrynne said drily. "As did we all."

"In that case, those shades stole our standard. A pity."

At great length, Nasuada composed herself. "That, then, may be all the greater motive. Gentlemen. Your supplies are limited, and your funds even more so. My sources tell me that you are reserving your cash for some sort of pension, and that your troops will likely mutiny if it is lost. And, in view of our losses, this is an opportunity we cannot afford to turn down. We wish to employ your troops. We will supply them. You will fight for us. Simple, I'm you'll agree."

Flaccus' face was unreadable. "And should I refuse?"

"Then I will turn your gold to dragon dung. I will then let loose into the wider world, and watch them disintegrate." She blinked now, Rufus noticed. Would she really do this? Could she? "You cannot reach your homeland, I fear."

She had them there. And it seemed that they had little choice. Whether they agreed with the Varde's views or not, they had no choice.

"We are to become mercenaries, then."

"You can treat it like that. I prefer 'Defenders of Freedom against Imperial Tyranny', or some such title." She smiled sweetly.

"And where," Flaccus asked, "is the great rider Eragon to be going?"

"To the Elves, Publius Cassius." She said no more.

And, at great length: "I accept your offer. On three conditions."

Nasuada gestured for him to continue.

"That, should we be able to return to Rome, we can do so at the earliest opportunity that presents it to us. That, should our eagle's presence be detected, we are permitted to retake it. And that our slaves remain our slaves. Not freedmen. Slaves." Flaccus remained sitting bolt upright, glaring. "Those are our conditions. I hope that you accept."

"Will you bare your balls at us again if you accept?" An obvious play for time.

"Absolutely not," Rufus said before Flaccus could make any more speeches.

There was a moment of whispering between the Vardeners. Then: "We accept the second. We understand the latter as part of your customs, but request that you do not attempt to buy any slaves whilst in Alagaesia, or sell any captives to slavery." Flaccus remained unreadable, but Rufus could tell his mind was racing. Not sell captives? A man who surrenders could expect nothing less! "But, whilst we will of course alert you to the first-if Rome can be accessed- we deny it. Obviously, if we are in the middle of a campaign, and your men have to guard a crucial area, or spearhead a vital assault, we cannot afford to lose them." This was fairly obviously from Jormumdur, who smiled briefly.

Another pause. Then: "Very well. We accept." Flaccus produced a scroll from the folds of his toga. "We would also request the use of the drill hall in our time at Tronjheim; and a more thorough knowledge of Alagaesia as a whole. Maps, for example."

"Granted," Nasuada said without hesitating. She looked tired, all of a sudden. Was she new to this? Quite possibly. She would have longer speeches and more taxing arguments to make than this; and, after a meeting which had only lasted a few minutes, she already sagged. "Leave us," she said imperiously, suddenly snapping into her poise. "You may go, Gydrynne, Publius Cassius, Spurius Julius. You march in three days."

She, of course, heard Publius Cassius hissing "I am a Roman Citizen" under his breath, as they rose and left. No one orders around a Roman Senator like that! No one in their world, that is.

"You did well," Jormundur said to her, when the door finally closed. "Very well, my Lady."

"Did I?" She slumped into her chair and started fanning at herself.

"Yes, My Lady."

"Good." She smiled weakly. "Farica! Where's Farica? Some tea would be great for our nerves. Father did this all the time, didn't he? Browbeating, wrangling, shouting."

"More or less."

She sat in silence, as the china cups were laid out, and the tea poured. She refused the offer of cake, and sat, watching the steam drift lazily upwards. It was the best the Varden could afford. Tasted it too.

And so little of it! So much to do, with so few soldiers, so little coin, so many problems, each of which needed her _in person_. Everything from the length of tent pegs to manuals for magic users, down to the last full stop.

Another knocking on her door. The tea was swiftly removed, Farica vanished through a side door, and once again she dragged herself into her poise: trying to sit, indeed, like a togate Roman.

"Three days, gentlemen. Three days." Flaccus was, once again, pacing furiously.

The triclinium of the house, its largest room, was packed. He had gathered his executores and military tribunes, the Centurions and Opitios and Decurions. Every man in the legion of high rank, crammed into there. The couches had been hauled out by slaves, and every scrap of ornament had been long since sold.

It was, in short, a giant cell, but instead of bars, there was a great map dominating one wall. It had been delivered late that afternoon by four porters, along with an enormous mass of books. Not scrolls, but books, with a leather cover and fabulous engravings. Turning each "page" was something to get used to. Another job for the intrepid Rufus, then.

"We march," Flaccus continued, "in three days." Someone, although he didn't notice it, rolled his eyes and yawned. "I have spoken to Praefectus Castrorum Mactator, who assures me that this is logistically possible. The wounded will be mounted, or given wagons. If there is any lack, I am relying upon you to donate horses. Decurion Sextus"-their senior surviving cavalry commander- "assures me that his troopers are willing to contribute. If your slaves are mounted, by all means loan us their horses. If you are mounted, the wounded have better need than yourself." Pulcher sighed. He had spent a fortune on those damned animals, and to dirty them with the rump of some former Suburan sewage worker was not a happy prospect.

"Are there any questions, gentlemen?" There were none. "Very good. I expect the men ready at the crack of dawn, three days time. That's… Dies Solis in Rome, but none can yet establish what it is out here."

"Dark, cramped, and fucking snoozy!"

"Full of filthy pygmies!"

"Very amusing. Now, we proceed to the second part of the lecture. If this is boring you, I will Castigato the lot of you. Our situation, at present, is thus."

The casualty figures were read out, and the number of effectives. Cato, who held the scroll with a stony face, was gratified to hear some sights of relief.

"We are stranded, in a land apparently uncharted by Roman cartographers, and one that Gnaeus Aurelius assures me from his long reading of Pliny that has never been set foot on by Roman mariners or explorers. It calls itself 'Alagaesia'. Our own best guess is somewhere in the far Seres, possibly Sinae, if only because dragons are thought to dwell there. In any case, we are a great distance from Rome. This land contains humans of two main factions: those allied to a Dragon-King, Galbatorix, and those who are fighting against him, chiefly in the Varden, the Kingdom of Surda, and in various tribes scattered across the country. In addition, there are Pygmy clans dwelling in these mountains, to the South East." He pointed at the map. "And what they call Elves-Nymphs, according to Gnaeus Aurelius, who has read much of them-in these forests, the 'Du Weldenvarden', in the North. They support the Varden faction."

"We have also, so as we can still be fed and watered-I am honest here, gentlemen, we are at present subordinated as mercenaries-allied to the Varden faction. They claim to be rebelling against the despotic King Galbatorix. He has maintained a stable, occasionally bloody, rule here for the past century. I will leave you to decide what that makes us, but be careful in expressing it. They have ears everywhere on both sides, through their witches. They can, quite possibly, read our minds. As yet, gentlemen, no defense has yet been discovered against this. I would personally advise trusting in Jupiter for protection, and making regular sacrifices. If you have a black dog, and you know how I despise superstitions like this, nailing its gall bladder to your banner may well be our only other defense, as is a judicious sprinkling of dog's blood."

The stunned, appauled silence was the worst thing. He had hoped for impotent shouting. That would only come later if there was a mutiny.

"But, worse than all these dragons and witches, worse than our shameless prostituting of Roman military power, worse even than our dead comrades, we have suffered another loss of Dignitas. Many of you, doubtless, will have heard rumours. It is true, gentlemen. Our Aquila is lost."

After this, the deluge.

"Gentlemen!" Flaccus shouted; but his voice couldn't rise above the mass of confused, frightened, incensed howls. He tried again, putting every parade trained snap into it. "GENTLEMEN!" Swords were drawn. "Mactator, silence them!"

"QUIET!"

The room lapsed into silence again, but an angry, stormy silence. One could almost touch the muttering.

"We will make every effort, gentlemen, to recover it. I have made every effort. It was not overmastered by some feat of arms of those horned beasts, but the spells and charms of witches. Two identical, bald men, who froze its guards solid, and made off with it like the scum they are. I have not named its guards yet. This is, I must assure you, not from compassion of any sort. I want their punishment for a lack of willpower to be conducted in front of the entire legion. I have sentenced them to Fustuarium. I reveal their names to you, and I would advise that you guard them well. I want no one easing their passing with a knife in the dark."

He read out the names. Rufus nodded grimly. He was the head of their cohort, and two of them had came from his century: the legion's supposed elite. "I will administer it myself," he said coldly. "It would be the greatest honour."

"My congratulations for your sternness, Spurius Julius." Flaccus looked at the last note on his scroll. "It will be conducted tomorrow afternoon, at three o'clock. On a slightly better note, we have been given permission to use the city's hall of arms. No more sword charging taverns!" He tried to raise a laugh. A few dutiful chuckles, as men remembered the affair. A centurion, frustrated at the lack of practice his men were getting, had ordered his century to full kit parade, and noticed someone who looked vaguely like Lord Ox-Hide in a tavern. Drawing his sword, he had screamed an oath and decided that now was the time for a full battle drill. The pounding of caligae alone almost knocked the door in; not only was Fredric not even there, but they had encountered a number of men from a rival century. The brawl ranked as among the greatest in the XXIII Adiutrix's entire history.

And so, the next day, the drill took place. The entire legion, armour polished until it shone like silver, marched out into the hall like some great, clattering machine. The checkerboard of maniples, each consisting of two hundred men, stretched out across the darkness. The standard bearers, each cohort with its Signifer, and the Imaginifer holding Trajan's golden portrait high.

The Emperor's eyes watched impassively, as his disgraced legion marched, arms pumping, heads held high, chests heaving under their heavy armour, sweat pouring down their faces. His face showed no smile of encouragement as the wooden posts were set up, with swordsmen hacking away feverishly; nor at the frantic volleys of javelins, nor the perfectly formed Testudo each cohort crunched into, on the barked word of command. At another, the ranks opened, the shields were lowered, the swords drawn, and the men advanced once more.

Like penitent priests, they took no meal, but marched on, and on. Every drop of wine was sweated out of them, every second of idleness repaid by an hour of bawling centurions, of forcing the wooden practice sword to the lunge over and over again, until every fibre of your being loathed it, and the officer, and the entire cursed army, and every hair of the Legate's quiff as he looks on impassively, trading his little witty remarks with that fool Pulcher. Who does he think he is? Caesar? Africanus? Just a big eared little shit, who's right now forcing you to grab that heavy shield of your's and raise it above your head, crouching in the sweat stinking darkness; or to leap over that "ditch" chalked out on the stone floor. And those bloody Cunni from the Varden, looking on, pointing out every motion, and mocking it in your paranoid eye, mocking it mercilessly. At least Strabo tripped over his own boots. I hope that scrape hurts. Bastard. Meat to his dog, more of his meat to his boyfriend as like as not, and none of it for the deserving milites.

But there was only one satisfaction that day, only one bright point.

Rufus removed his armour, and readied his cane. Lots had been drawn, and the punishment century had formed up with him, sticks in hands. He took a good look at the victims. Scarred, bearded veterans most of them. Would they turn tail and run?

But never let it be said among the men, he convinced himself as the trumpet blew, that a Praetorian didn't hit hard, nor that he had shirked in his duty.

Some called for mercy. A young one, with a huge great spot on his chin and an absence of any hair on his face, let his lip wobble.

"Meet it like a Roman," one of the punishment century said. "To Elysium for you."

The lad started to sob. "There was nothing I could do!" he cried. "Mercy!"

The legion, helmets clamping their heads into position, stared stonily back.

"I just froze!" he cried, almost falling on his knees. "Just froze, like-" something warm was trickling down his leg. "Something-"

"Meet it like a Roman," Rufus said, as the century began to advance.

The lad's back stiffened.

"Good lad," Rufus said, and struck him.

The cowards got off lightly, mostly. One was beaten to death on the spot. Three died in the night. The other seven were permitted to live, being old veterans, and thus somehow above death. One of them, Rufus later learned, was the lad. The seven were thrown out, into the cold hard stone of the mountain, into a strange, foreign land, with no one to look to for succor.

Cowards.

"You did well, Spurius Julius," Flaccus said after the blood was finally cleared away, and the Legion was ordered off out. "Very well."

He meant it! "I did my duty," Rufus said, and that was that. His expression was quite unreadable.

On the final night, as the wagons were being drawn up, and the men getting into marching order, the executores had a little party. The couches were moved back into the triclinium. Gydrynne, for want of other women, was allowed to sit opposite each of the executores alternately; mostly, she chose Rufus. Her Latin was remarked upon, congratulated. The wine flowed freely, the talk was unforced, and even laughed came after a little prodding. Pulcher's play was going well, it seemed.

And finally, Flaccus called for a toast. "With full wine, please, not watered down," he told Tertius. The cups were filled up.

"Drink now, for tomorrow we may die," he said, raising his cup. "To our future."

The cups clinked together, and the white wine was downed in one. A fleck of fish attached itself to Flaccus' cheek, as he made one final speech.

"Today," he said, "we may drink, and make merry. But tomorrow, we must march as if Hades was behind us, with Cerberus and all his heads slavering along behind us. Tomorrow, we return to war."

So they did.

Glossary

Turma: 30 man squadron of Legionary Cavalry, led by a Decurion. The Legion would contain four squadrons.

Medicus: A high ranking surgeon, with considerable staff (casparii, named after their medicine pouches.) Roman and medieval medicine was rarely as bad as depicted in fantasy novels (i.e. an excuse to make jokes about bleeding patients until the magical healer kicks the gin drinking doctor out of the hospital and sets to work.) A Roman doctor had considerable experience in surgery; at least, the sort that involved wounds inflicted by the enemy. Roman amputation techniques were still being used in the First World War. Natural anesthetics, such as poppy juice, were fairly well known and widely used. Medical tools were cleaned before use. This enabled Roman surgeons to treat remarkably severe wounds (in some cases "heroic" surgery-when the belly is slit open.) And hospitals were relatively clean, well lit, and quiet. (The herbs I mentioned, according to the magnificent internet, were genuinely used by Roman doctors. Astonishingly, both yarrow and garlic would actually have worked fairly well for treating wounds.)

That said, it was a world entirely without antibiotics, and with hardly any knowledge of how to treat disease, and could be at times almost hilariously ignorant (it was, after all, the Romans who invented the whole business of there being four "humours" for the human body.) Although the philosopher Lucretius hypothesized that germs were "tiny creatures, too small to see, that float through the air and enter the body through the mouth and nose… This can give rise to serious diseases. Generally, avoiding getting ill or hurt is the best way out of needing a doctor. And this, through experience, ingenuity, and engineering prowess (witness Julius Caesar draining a marsh full of malaria causing mosquitos), the Romans were pretty good at, by the standards of the ancient world. Or, indeed, more or less any time before the 18th century.

Vejovis: Roman god of healing.

"Lord Ox Hide": I looted that one from Clodia Pulchura, a lady with a notorious sex life from the Roman Republic. "Lady Ox-Eyes", as Cicero called her, apparently had long, seductive lashes and dark, ox like eyes. Of course, the use of it here is more insulting.

Tomb walker: Roman slang for a prostitute. They often hung around tombs in their line of work.

Lysistrata: a Greek comedy, concerning a group of women attempting to stop a war between Athens and Sparta by going on a sex strike. Pulcher has got some of his information about Greek theatre wrong; Greek comedies actually did include actresses, mostly for nudity. All significant parts were played by men; female roles were men in saffron tunics.

Ave: "Be well", or "hail". An informal greeting.

Cuttlefish eater: Athenian slang for a really rich person. Presumably Mactator has travelled widely.

O Tempora! O Mores!: "What times, what morals". Attributed to Cicero, when making a speech about the problem of Catilina-a conspirator against the Republic-being allowed to live.

Carnifex: Roman executioner. Any Warhammer 40,000 players out there will find this pretty appropriate.

Scipio Africanus: A Roman general, who defeated Hannibal.

Cato the Younger: A notably principled Senator (a rare thing in the last days of the Roman Republic) renowned for his frugal lifestyle, staunch Stoicism, adherence to the Roman constitution, and tireless opposition to Julius Caesar. His death was also famous; so famous, in fact, that I gleefully ransacked it for the Aquilifer's suicide from Plutarch's Lives. I hope he doesn't mind.

Subura: The roughest part of Rome's slum district, the Esquiline hill.

Seres: Asia.

Sinae: China. They knew of each other's existence, more or less, and traded later on in the Imperial period. Far Eastern spices were extremely popular in the Late Empire, and were correspondingly expensive.

Dog's blood and a dog's gall bladder: Both were considered useful in warding off evil spirits and magical spells.


	5. I: A March

And so, back we come. Ave, greetings and may the stars watch over you to my characters, hello, guten tag, bonjour and so on (I don't know Norwegian, I'm afraid. Or Chinese, Romanian, Croat…) to my readers. (Or, indeed, that much Latin, which is why these translations may look vaguely familiar.) I hope that you are enjoying this. If not, please explain, and I'll set about improving it. Now, some of you may notice that the punishment meted out to those soldiers (poor sods) doesn't necessarily match up with Flaccus' inspirational speech. That will be explained, this chapter. But now the plot is finally going to get under way! Expect a lot of marching, a lot of riding, the introduction of new characters, and possibly even new points of view from varying sides. (These may seem irrelevant, but they will come together in spectacular fashion. It's all in my Grand Plan, which is forming even as I type!)

Also, for those who haven't been looking at my profile (I can't blame you. Only madness lies therein), this story just got mentioned on antishurtugal! (The link is on my profile, if you're interested.) Now, admittedly, it contains many things that the inheritance fans among you will look askance at (it is, I will be brutally honest, a Christopher Paolini hate site), but buried in amongst all the snark and barbed comments are insights on how to write properly. I used these, many years ago, to learn how to do just that. I hope that I haven't let them down.

Finally, a historical error: At one point, I said that the camp was 2100 square feet. On recalculation, I need to add a few zeroes.

* * *

"_Home we bring our bald whoremonger;  
Romans, lock your wives away!  
All the bags of gold you lent him  
Went his Gallic tarts to pay."_

_Marching song of Julius Caesar's Legions._

Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher often found people surprised to learn that, when it came down to it, he considered himself an animal lover at heart.

Not in the vile oriental way, of course, and not unconditionally; dogs, whatever Pliny may tell of their loyalty, were far from his idea of man's best friend. Overfed little lapdogs that vomited on their wealthy, female owners (and spoiling his chat up lines at the same time.) Great, slavering brutes like Maxima, who seemed to insist on leaping as high as they possibly could whenever he even came vaguely close. Loyal, trusty sheepdogs who shat everywhere he went, and had their owners chase him with sticks the moment he said a word. No, Juvenal had it quite right: _Alcestis died for her husband, but your modern woman would let her husband go to Hades if it could save her lapdog!_ And a damn shame, too. They all needed a caliga or two up the backside.

As if in compensation, he was fascinated by all others beasts and birds and fish. He had devoured Pliny as soon as he could get his young hands on it, scroll after scroll. As he grew up, he gradually began to realize that vet or amphitheatre manager were not fitting careers for one of his lineage. This did not unduly trouble him. In his mind's eye, he could see the fish ponds he planned to dig out in the villa, feel the mullet and eels and lampreys (with ear rings, of course!), and all the strange creatures from the East he could import. (Or even find them himself!) These plans, of course, were always to be completed at some unspecified stage in the future, after tonight's drinking binge, or costume party, or trip to the baths and brothels, or even senate meetings and military marches. But they were still there. And that, as his fortunes began to slowly dwindle, and years turn to decades, was enough for him.

As such, when faced with a range of mountains as yet untouched by a Roman caliga, without any of those mathematically, rigidly, _tediously _straight roads eviscerating them, he was somewhat more excited than his pounding hangover might suggest. Already, he had encountered pygmies, Urgals, nymphs, and a dragon. Their city, a veritable Petra, seemed to contain no strange animals, but no matter. They had obviously been hunted out years ago, like beasts for the arena. There were, he reassured himself, still many left to find.

The first day of the march started in typical Roman fashion: at dawn, and in good order. There was no Roman scouting force at the front, for the Varden and pygmies knew the area well, and were taking up that duty themselves. In fact, the Romans were sandwiched in the middle of the vast column, a scrap in the total around fifteen thousand fighting men, with all the horses, civilians and baggage that entailed. Flaccus, of course, had tilted his nose high, and was determined to make the best of it. First came an ad hoc century of men, led by Mactator, whose job it was to make any necessary repairs to the road ahead. Next, the baggage train, with artillerymen, slaves and the wounded luxuriating, and making the calls of chariot racers (the typical infantryman's response to which was giving them the finger, and a loud curse.) Flaccus, the cavalry, and the staff officers, of course, were right behind them, riding along in a most imperious manner. A recent addition had been made to them, in the form of Gydrynne. She, Rufus, Publipor Tertius, and ever literate slave who could be found (including, to Pulcher's intense annoyance, twelve of his own) had formed a mounted huddle. Each of them had a writing desk clipped to his saddle, and a quill and paper in ready to take dictation; for Rufus and Gydrynne, sitting in their brazier warmed carriage together, had at last deigned to start a translation of Alagaesian to Latin. Very comfortable looking they were, too. Bringing up the rear were the infantry: sixty centuries of Rome's finest, cloaks bundled around them, and packs shouldered.

"And behind them, gentlemen," Flaccus remarked for the hundredth time as the column set off, "should be our gallant allies. But, instead, we are treated as barbarians ourselves! The arrogance of these people, to think themselves superior!"

"Quite so, Publius Cassius," Pulcher said, nodding vigorously. He stared out into the dim caves, and spurred his horse forward. "Forward, Xanthus," he whispered into its ear. "Forward!" And, with the grinding, clattering, creaking mass of noise, of boots and legs and hoofs and wheels, the column began to advance.

For the first few hours, progress was entirely underground. Pulcher had optimistically expected some cavalcade of blank eyed creatures with all manner of revolting but interesting appendages. He was quickly disappointed. The pygmies carved their caves well, and guarded them with equal skill. And their lanterns, whilst perhaps vaguely intriguing, held no interest for long.

This soon changed, however, with the coming of the sun.

At first, there was a whisper. The entire Legion seemed alive with talk, as it trudged through the Stygian darkness. Light! Where? How do you know, Dexter? Ahead? What from? What dreadful sun did this land possess? Was there a sun at all, or was Apollo gone from this sunken land? How far onward? Will there be a break there, sir; these bloody boots are killing me. Necks craned, eyes stared into the darkness. No barking "Silence in the ranks!" were to be heard. Everyone was curious, fearful, longing.

Another hour passed, and another. The whispers died, and flickered into life once more. "We will need a sacrifice, I believe," a voice said to Pulcher's right. He jumped in his saddle, before guiltily realizing it was Flaccus. He tried to turn it into some sort of stiffening to attention, and failed miserably.

"A sacrifice, Publius Cassius?" he asked, ducking a stalactite expertly. This tunnel was not designed with horses or tall humans in mind.

"For our deliverance from the darkness, and to bring us victory, Gnaeus Aurelius." Flaccus, seated gloriously erect on the massive Bucephalus, didn't see the stalactite until it was too late. "By Hercules," he muttered, rubbing his head in a most undignified way. Pulcher succeeded in keeping his face straight, fortunately.

"Of course, Publius Cassius," he said.

"Quite." Flaccus swiftly regained his composure. "Now, as your Legate, I am supposed to be instructing you in the correct handling of a Legion."

"I believe so, Publius Cassius."

"I know it to be so. I know that well. I must apologize for being so remiss in your lessons, of late. This idleness is leading you astray into all manner of… decadent activities."

Pulcher could have used many words to describe the past two weeks, but idle was not among them. "Forgive me, Publius Cassius, but I have been far from idle. Idleness has been left by the roadside and trampled on by the chariot of destiny, if you would forgive the metaphor. I have been at work with papers, buying supplies, inspecting troops, improving morale with my little play, and have been engaged in the most taxing of international negotiations."

"The latter of which you almost ruined with that ridiculous oath. That, Gnaeus Aurelius, is not the manner of a Roman soldier, senator or citizen when faced with foreigners." Flaccus lapsed into triumphant silence, as did Pulcher.

But, eventually, the whisper of light became a mutter, then a roar. The column turned a final corner, and sunlight-glorious, old fashioned sunlight-suddenly poured into their eyes, gushing through every spindly branch and leaf of the wind torn pine trees, over every crag of iron-grey rock in the landscape that presented itself to the Romans. A sparse, mountainous valley, of the sort that may have once been filled with water. Bleak it may be, but the sun was out, the sky was of the clearest blue- the clouds must be below us, Pulcher realized-and there was the merest hint of birdsong. Such was the contrast between the gloomy tunnels and city that the cry went up among some of the men "Lucifer! Lucifer!" Helmets would have been thrown into the air had not the centurions acted quickly.

"And here we are," Flaccus said, walking his horse to the edge of the road. "Alagaesia." He took a good look around, eyes taking it all in. He took a breath of the glorious mountain air. "Onward, soldiers of Rome! March forth!" His horse reared up, but he expertly clung onto the saddle. "Only this way can we deliver victory!" As the men marched stoically on, it made quite a scene; the heroic general, exhorting his troops to victory, as their armor gleamed in the mid morning sun. What a shame, Pulcher thought to himself, that most of them didn't give a damn. He didn't, at least, and he of course reckoned himself to be like most men. Rufus leaned out of the carriage and cheered briefly, before returning to his papers.

Only when the entire Legion had passed by did the staff officers gallop to their place in the column. "Good marching weather," Flaccus was saying enthusiastically, words pouring out of him. "We could make twenty miles with no rain, no snow, or if the roads don't worsen. And quite bracing after the Tronjheim murk."

"This will be a beautiful day," Pulcher said diplomatically, for it was. Marching distances he couldn't make head or tail of, but he could tell a clear summer's day. His head was beginning to ache under the great, plumed helmet.

"It shall be so." Flaccus waited until the column had reached a ridge, with all the world before him, to comment next. He looked down at the rolling mass of cloud, with the little rents and holes showing a landscape of more mountains, more foothills, with a little smattering of villages along the bottom, and announced that a storm was coming. "There is no wind, gentlemen. The air is still. We are in mountains, much like those of Cisalpine Gaul. I expect it shall break in several days." And, with that, he rode on.

"A word of advice, young man," Flaccus said a few minutes later. "Wear a sunhat."

"A sunhat?" Pulcher injected every bit of disdain he could muster into the word. "But you yourself ride bareheaded."

"Primus knows an ointment from the East, and it is not for sale." Of course it wasn't. Aristocrats do not engage in trades. "But those helmets warm up like ovens, and your skin shrivels up under the open sun."

"I will ride as I am," Pulcher said stubbornly.

"On your head be it, Gnaeus Aurelius. Literally." A joke? Flaccus must be in a good mood.

On his head be it? True, by the first night he found his skin itchy and red as anything. True, from thighs to calves, from elbow to fingertip, from forehead to throat, he had practically scratched himself raw, and cursed as the itching raged on. But what beasts he had seen, touched, felt! The march came to him in a series of brief memories, not a long stream...

A great bird, flying as a mere speck in the sky, teasingly dodging between peaks and swooping at what could only be cattle. Fanghur, Gydrynne had called it, once it was pointed out. Although she was no expert. "It is so good to feel the sun again," she had told him, by way of explanation, luxuriously leaning out of the carriage and stretching like a cat. The redness around her eyes, and her tendency towards drink, had gone. "It has been so long. Years?" Rufus glanced up from his sheaf of notes, thought for a moment, and nodded encouragingly. "Yes, years. Eight long years in that bad mountain. But never again!" She smiled tentatively…

A pair of boots found by the roadside, left by some Varden cavalry officer. No one could say why. A wagon driver with an eye for the glamorous scooped them up, and left his own caligae behind. Pulcher rode on a few yards, and turned to find a legionary grabbing them, for his own had broken slightly, and leaving his old pair behind. Another soldier gleefully scooped that up from the next century, leaving his own. And another, and another…

A strange goat, if a goat can be the size of a bear, standing right in the middle of the road. The troops, urged on, marched around it, parting like water about a rock. Feldunost, Gydrynne had said. A pygmy riding beast. Someone scratched it behind the ears. It didn't seem to mind…

A group of Pygmies, pickaxes shouldered and magnificently wrought armor shimmering in the heat, marching soberly past, and barking in their harsh tongue: "Clear the way!" The entire column inexplicably halted.

"Ride with me, Gnaeus Aurelius," Flaccus had said, spurring his horse into a trot. "We shall see the cause of this disturbance."

They rode past the ranks of Varden troops as they shrugged off heavy packs and slumped, exhausted, to the ground. "I am your Legate, and I shall teach you. Tell me," Flaccus said, making a broad gesture at the Varden soldiers, "what do you make of them?"

"Well armed," Pulcher had said.

Flaccus sighed, exasperated. "Their weapons. They are long. Long swords, one handed axes, a handful of pikes." They rode past a cluster of pikes stuck into a stream's bed, like the signs for a dozen crossroads, with their owners lounging in the sun nearby. "All very effective in single combat, of course. But, you will note, only a handful of pikes, and a handful of bows. What does that tell you, Gnaeus Aurelius?" He paused for an answer, heard none, and went on regardless. "You cannot swing one of those great swords in a tight formation, meaning that they put little emphasis on discipline. They may be well armed barbarians, but they will shatter before a good volley of pila, a few artillery bolts, and a charge by disciplined legionaries. Their formation breaks apart, the individuals are cut down by the mass, and cavalry guts them once they flee."

Pulcher had nodded, wishing he had brought his wax tablet.

The holdup, it had turned out, was a recent landslide, a couple of weeks old, blocking the entire road. The pygmies, it seemed, maintained little outside of their own holds, preferring instead to remain safe inside, and let others do the work. "And may we all pray to Jupiter that Rome doesn't get like this," Flaccus had said, before opining to a magic user (Trianna, Pulcher remembered her name was ) that a good legion with dolbarae was needed here. "Every man has one," he said. "And a pick axe, also, combined into one tool." Jormundur, if not astonished, was at least moderately surprised that a warrior ever needed to use such a thing when there were plenty of camp followers to hand. But, in any case, the pickaxe toting pygmies were given the task of clearing it, the march was held up for three days, and the Legion camped out precariously on the road. Some daring souls fell asleep with their legs dangling off the roadside, claiming that the gods wouldn't dare push them off. Most were right. A man from the Second Century slipped and fell, never to be seen again. His centurion had instructed a memorial to him to be carved out in the mountain with dolbarae. But, as only he could read, and the men made mistakes, he gave up…

And the first cohort tramping past. They had no banner, but maintained their spirit, even as storm clouds gathered over their heads. Backs were straight, heads facing forward. Rufus' Optio, a man called Dexter, led the way, his beard long and graying. He had served almost as long as Mactator, and would have been on the staff as Primus Pilus had Rufus not been appointed there. But still, Pulcher had thought, morale was high. They were even singing. Some old song.

_The Adiutrix are coming,_

_O When shall you see us?_

_When your blood is a-flowing…_

That, at least, was the gist of it. No musical genius, but good enough to march to. But they had added in a few lines.

_Spurius Rufus is coming,_

_O When shall we see him?_

_When our pay is a-flowing,_

_(But best not in arrears),_

_And when Eagles are returning,_

_At the point of our spears_

_In short when the world is ending…_

Pulcher had ridden on, shaken. Rufus never heard of the song, as he was busily seated in the comfort of the carriage, or in a cozy room at a desk, a long way from his men.

The march to Aberon, overall, took twenty seven days. Most of that was on bad roads, slept under canvas or open sky, with a camp sometimes impossible to build due to the lack of space in the mountains. It was, by and large, uneventful. That was to say, many interesting things occurred, but nothing unduly dangerous or frightening. Nothing apart from when the storm finally broke.

They had descended to the Beor foothills by then, a plump, lazy country, all sun dappled pine forests (with the sunrays occasionally slashing through the spectacularly dark thunderclouds, making quite a beautiful contrast as Pulcher saw it) and peaceful farmsteads and vinyards. The peasants, at least, hadn't changed from the Roman ones. They even got together and maintained the ancient pygmy roads on occasion, which made up for lost time in the wretched mountains. Wine was being sold by the skinful. The inevitable swarms of salesmen who immediately sprang up with massive prices had emerged, and were circling for cash. The Centurions did their utmost to prevent drunkenness on the march (or, when all else failed, pool the men's cash to try and barter special offers, by mime, shouting, and sword point), but more than a few were caned for their troubles.

"It will be tonight," Flaccus declared that evening as they made camp by Lake Beartooth. He stared out across the mirror flat lake, one booted foot posed on a rock, as the sun began to set. For a few minutes, that lake would be fiery red, then black and lightning-flash white. He remained thus for a few more moments, and returned to organizing men and materials. This time, he vowed, there would be no mysterious stones and eggs materializing in ditches. These were, as ever, well dug, complete with the vicious little slots of depth alternately added to trap even more men's legs. The Varden, who knew the country better, slept out in the open, or hired billets at the nearby village. Many strolled along in ostentatious comfort to watch the work progressing, often providing their own sage advice on how to continue, and drinking a great deal of the local ale in the process. First guard dogs (with Maxima in the lead), then men and centurions chased them off; a Macedonian cavalryman threatened to set his fighting cocks on one unfortunate. The man took one look at their spurs, and ran for his life.

All had gone well, and Pulcher, after spending a quiet evening picking at papers whilst basking in the warmth and watching Jupiter and co unleashing their wrath on the lake (with all lightning flickering and blazing away, and the thunder crashing off the mountainsides), lay in his tent and prepared for a good sleep. Anyone who could sleep through Rome at night could handle a storm, after all. He lay down, wished that his slave girl wasn't too sick to pleasure him, and was about to nod off when he heard something scraping against his tent. This, of course, woke him up immediately. Another animal? Something mundane? Or something out to eat him…

"Gnaeus Aurelius!" the voice burbled. After a moment, he worked it out to be Flaccus'. "Gnaeus Aurelius!"

Cursing, Pulcher clambered out of his tent, dressed in his tunic. "What is it?" he demanded groggily, and stopped when he saw the face leering at him out of the darkness. A flash of lightning illuminated it to the full.

"A lesson is in order for field dressing, I believe," it said. A mashed nose, two black eyes, and blood trickling out of his mouth. A grotesque. His Legate. "Now. Get Cato."

"Why didn't you get him earlier, Publius Cassius?" Pulcher asked, transfixed.

"Your tent was nearer the entrance. And I…" Flaccus seemed to sag for a moment.

Cato was fetched. He never seemed to sleep, and so rose quickly, grabbed his medicine pouch and bone saw ("Just in case"), and followed Pulcher. "A bar fight? Happens to everyone, but I thought you'd have more sense."

Flaccus held up a hand, and poured water into his mouth from the proffered skin. He swilled it around, and spat. A tooth fell to the ground. Pulcher almost recoiled, but forced himself to keep watching. "Ambush," he muttered. He spat again.

"An ambush, gentlemen," he said. "One moment, I was walking back to camp from the village tavern. One must have his rest, of course. The next, a ruffian tripped me, and more set about me barehanded. Needless to say, I resisted. After a while, one of the Varden provosts appeared, gripping a lantern. They fled, with a note." He opened his bruised hand. "Rufus would know that the first message means. But the second…"

Pulcher shivered, not just due to the rain which still fell thick about him, as he took it and held it up to a torch. "We know what happened to those men, you had beaten" he read with difficulty; the handwriting was truly execrable. "And about your speech. Regards." He lowered it. "Very melodramatic."

"I made a speech," Flaccus said. "When we found the eagle was lost. It was, in the nature of speeches, not to be taken strictly. I promised not to punish anyone. But, when I saw the mood of the officers and men, I knew someone had to die. Their anger had to be taken out on someone. Why not the men who lost the Eagle? So I had them killed." For another man, he would have at least seemed scared, but not Flaccus. Even with a mangled face, he remained as stoic looking as ever. "I took soldiers along with me on a patrol-you remember, I see. They saw me making that speech. They knew…"

Pulcher felt the blood drain from his face.

"You can have my tent, sir," he said, and, after seizing his cloak, rushed off to Rufus.

The old, bald man woke reluctantly, and grasped the message only reluctantly. He squinted as he translated it. "Egg breaker, it says. Egg breaker. Good night."

That got Pulcher thinking, as he shivered outside his own tent; it was considered too dangerous to get Flaccus anywhere that would be recognized as his. That egg he had found in that ditch. It wasn't of an animal he had ever read about. And these people, these Vardeners, were seeking more eggs for their dragons. That nymph bitch, Arya, had reacted angrily after looking at his thought about that egg.

He wasn't a great logician or stoic by nature, but it didn't take long for him to wrangle it out. He had, somehow, lost these people a much valued dragon egg. And it had became common knowledge somehow. Common enough, at least, for a bunch of anonymously cloaked thugs to know about it when attacking his leader.

He slept little after that.

* * *

Glossary

Caliga: military sandal.

Giving the finger: Yes, raising the middle finger in insult was used by the Romans.

Juvenal: Roman satirist

Hesiod: Ancient Greek poet.

Lucifer: Light bringer. Usually used by the Romans to denote Venus, which heralded daylight.

Cisalpine Gaul: Northern Italy, including the Alps.

Fighting cocks: A popular Greek pastime, and one that the Macedonian has obviously picked up.


	6. I: A Plan

Now, readers, could you do me just a small favour? I know that you've had to slog through miles of laborious glossaries, oceans of obscure Latin terms which I may not understand, and not even get a single Third Rider from New York (or Rome, as the case may be) Romance with Eragon! scene to reward you, but bear with me. Now, I know that it is unusual for me to do a crossover involving different worlds from different periods of history. You have told me frequently in the reviews. However, I would like to know how I could improve my writing. I know that it isn't flawless. Could you drop a few comments about that in as well?

A small note: from now on, I will be delving into the human societies of Alagaesia. As, in my view, Paolini hasn't dwelt on these in sufficient detail for a good fanfic, I have slightly added to them. Whilst I've done my utmost to avoid outright contradicting anything in the original books, there are going to be things not explicitly mentioned there. I consider this part of my power as fanfic author (after all, if we can dump in teenagers and entire armies from other worlds, giving a city an orchard or two and arming the Empire's soldiers realistically doesn't seem that outrageous), but please tell me if it gets too jarring. Another aspect of this is that I will not constantly satisfy Paolini's strange desire to put in as many accents as physically possible to every name he can come across, no matter how minor, or even changing it from the previous name. (I gather that the first, elven Eragon now has umlauts.) This is because it takes too long, and frankly it adds nothing to the story whatsoever. Or the world building. Or anything, really. Similarly, I will keep ancient language quotations to a strict minimum. Spell incantations, Elven greetings, and that's about it. When I listen to my brother speaking French or German, I can't really distinguish what he's saying. I'm applying the same standards to my characters. After all, these languages are supposed to come from a completely foreign world, rather than just across twenty miles of ocean, and they have a lot on their minds at present. Also, my glossary is full enough without me forcing the reader to keep a copy of the entire Trilogy to hand whenever an elf opens his or her mouth.

Now we return to those characters. In this chapter, the story's shoot really gets real, although it has been building up pretty nicely. Milites! Forward!

(Also, one more thing: I have lost track of Flaccus's slaves. Very careless of me, I know. If you can tell me if I've already used the name "Primoris" for a slave who wasn't his body slave, I would be most grateful.)

(Another more thing: expect a significant slowdown in new chapters for the next few months. My A2 Level Revision has started in full earnest. They will come, just slowly. Very slowly.)

"_It's my bloody birthday, and I've got to spend it in the dreary countryside without my Cerinthus! What's better than being in the city?" A protest by the poet Sulpicia, a Roman teenager._

A city! Not some pygmy warren, but a city, with good human folk, and good human doorways. And a procession which, as reluctant as Flaccus was to admit it, almost matched a Triumph.

The Varden arrived in Aberon at dawn, just as the clouds were parting and the new run gently raising its crest above Aberon's great hills. They had made camp on those the night before. Every man could see the city's walls below and the inviting web of torches and oil lamps as they were snuffed out one by one. Every man, weary after his march and longing for the comforts a city could offer, projected his imaginings of a bath, a hot meal, and a whore or several onto the city, with its colossal fortress sticking incongruously out of the sprawling stone and slums. Indeed, several projected them so far that a century's worth of men was found slipping out to sample them early. These men, including Centurion Agelastus and Immunis Strabo, were to form the core of the labor force Flaccus was planning; for what purpose, none could say, and Flaccus wasn't telling anyone.

Aberon. Not Rome, but everyone considered it its equal anyway. The stone walls, bathed in the pink and gold of the morning light, with the orange banners at full mast and guards with brazen weapons shouldered, seemed just as mighty. Its citizens were the same color as Italians and Romans-no pale, blonde Varden types here- and, whilst doubtless barbaric and uncivilized in many respects, cheered every bit as loudly as the Roman mob when the serried ranks of troops, bedecked in their finest armour and medals, marched past with standards raised and bands playing. The shrines dotting every street corner, whilst of course not containing the great Roman deities, were just as comforting as the groves of orange and lemon trees, formed for cultivation like a Greek phalanx on a hillside just below the Borromeo castle, were pleasingly exotic.

And the birds! Flaccus could see Pulcher gazing around in apparent ecstasy as he rode forth, otherwise every bit the conquering hero. Some, he could recognize. A nightingale. A few finches. He just about glimpsed an Ostrich running down the plains as they marched under the gate. Others, however, he did not, with their fantastically colored plumage and bizarre singing (from rasping croak to something that sounded uncannily close to a water organ.) He didn't especially care for them, of course; fish were more his style. But, after the darkness of Tronjheim, any animal was of interest. Especially if it was new, and could be sold at great profit to fine ladies.

The procession itself was common fare, if any military parade can be described as common. A regiment of the Surdan Foot Guards, bedecked in their fine orange coats, white pantaloons and holding cruciform hilted long swords in salute, led them, marching rigidly in step. Around them capered a host of musicians, clashing away with cymbals and grinning like loons, in stark contrast to the stately flute players of the Guard's band. These were largely older men, in the same uniform as the Surdan soldiers. The cheers they attracted from the crowds were, if anything, larger than those for a Triumphant General. Flaccus would later learn that they entirely consisted of wounded veterans, each a hero of his country. Then came Nasuada, riding alongside the King of Surda himself, each with drawn swords and full regalia. Flaccus, from what glimpses he had caught of the King under his immense crown and robes, thought him a young man with bright eyes; but most leaders looked that way with their people smiling on them. And, finally, the Varden and Roman horse and foot, in their finest armour, as polished as was possible after a long march. Every medal was in place, every crest spruced up, every last Centurion's greave recovered from every last pack and gambler's winnings. Flaccus, once again, refused to wear his helmet, letting all see his battered face and distinctive quiff. These seemed to fetch few cheers, not that Flaccus noticed. These people, obviously used to soldiers, seemed to approve of his Legion, and that was what mattered the most.

Of course, he didn't notice how the cheers only really rose for the Surdan troops. These people were certainly used to soldiers. They knew how quickly an army could swarm through the countryside and take every scrap of food, every last crumb, every last chicken and ear of corn. Being defended from Imperial oppression was all very well, but being defended by troops who bought food with local currency was better still.

That evening, the festivities were brought to their climax, although not of the Surdans' doing. Flaccus, as the final ceremonial bows and scrapings to the King and his courtiers had ended, decided that now was the time for their sacrifice. "Best to get in before the beasts quadruple in price," he explained to Pulcher, before asking Mactator to send some slaves out with gold and an eye for a bargain. Something told him that the Varden quartermasters wouldn't approve of handing out heifers just for religious festivals, strange as their beliefs were.

Nevertheless, after sunset, the oxen, sheep and pigs had been found, and a venue (a large square with a grand looking building dominating one side) chosen. Surprisingly, Aberon had no Temples to Mars. "Won't this be something of a problem, sir?" Pulcher asked nervously.

"What else are we to do, Gnaeus Aurelius? Mars is with all Romans soldiers, no matter how far in the depths of Germania, or India. We must hope that, on this day, He can spare a thought for His humble Legion." Flaccus' body slave had done an excellent job on his toga, folding it in such a manner that it had a hood. This he now raised, as he was to carry out the sacrifice. "To work, Gnaeus Aurelius."

The sacrifice was a sparse, ill prepared affair. They had none of the sacred bread for the heifers, instead trusting to local bakers, but wine was in plentiful supply to sprinkle on the heifer's head; and the altar was hastily bodged together from hastily borrowed masonry. "O Mars!" Flaccus cried as the first ox was led to the altar, goaded by four legionaries (the beast, perhaps sensing its fate, didn't go quietly) "we pray that you forgive the paucity of this offering, for it is being gifted from a far, desolate land, where your Valour and Wisdom are forgotten by its people." A number of its people, having heard that the sacrifices were to be eaten after death, had sidled along. They now crowded along the back rows, behind the massed ranks of legionaries standing to attention. Many had brought wine. "But the Roman Soldier, O Mars, will never forget you. And so, O Mars, we present these humble offerings to you." Flaccus raised his knife, and as the ox was held down, slit its throat.

It took eight tries. Eight sets of animals, before the omens were satisfactory. Eight tries, before no one felt drops of rain, or the blood sprayed too far, or it had shat itself with undue vigour, or the entrails fell poorly out of the beast's belly. By the end the blood was pouring down the steps, and Flaccus looked more like a butcher than a soldier, his toga crimson with blood, and his eyes wild. He had had to promise Mars thanksgiving Games (which he promised to himself that, should he get out of this, he would beg the Senate and Emperor to grant) before He finally began to support them. "Mars is with us!" he panted, as the major organs of the sheep, oxen and pigs were burned on the altar (there were many pig organs-he had had to sacrifice a pig before trying again.) From the drunken Surdans and Varden soldiers on the back row, there was a great, ironic cheer. The Legion cheered whole heartedly. "Now, Soldiers," Flaccus said, snapping his fingers for Primoris, his Body Slave to get him his tunic (he only had one toga with him, and going to dinner looking like he'd stepped from an abattoir was not his style) "let us eat."

The rest of the animals were roasted, and duly served as a very late supper; and, indeed, cold as breakfast for the next morning. The feast lasted until dawn, and Flaccus felt it a great success. "We have eaten with the Gods, Gnaeus Aurelius!" he exclaimed, before staggering off to bed. Pulcher couldn't help but wonder whether Bacchus had benefitted more from last night's proceedings, for everyone had got extremely drunk. But no matter. Some God, somewhere, was with them. And that, he thought as his hangover started to hit him, was what mattered.

The next morning came at about ten o'clock. "That, my good man, is indecently late," Flaccus groaned in response to Tertius' unduly loud "Rise and shine, Master!"

"With respect, Master, you did seem remarkably reluctant to awaken." Tertius swung open the shutters, letting a stream of glorious, golden, _agnosing_ sunlight gush in.

Flaccus suddenly realized he had no idea where he was. He took stock of the room. Headache. A good, human sized bed. A writing desk. A tapestry engulfing one of the walls, depicting dragons in battle. A small cupboard for clothes. And large windows, with a stunning view of Aberon, bringing him neatly back to the first part: headache.

But it couldn't have been anywhere too bad. He knew Tertius would never let him down on that front. "This is a cheerful room," Flaccus said, swinging himself painfully out of bed. "The tapestry, especially. Now, where is my tunic?"

"Primoris has it, Master, although he has taken the liberty of purchasing a new one. It was vomited on, and your toga is being cleaned as I speak." Tertius smiled. "And it is a pleasant room, is it not? We are at present occupying the _Hotel Regia_. It is a much respected inn, with, or so I am told, a fine cuisine, particularly in the area of fish. These, as its keeper, who goes by the name of Master Roderigo, told me, are cooled by magic users in their long journey from the coast. He does not, sadly, do _garum_, but assures his guests that he is happy to take any recipes they suggest. The inn also has Superb, Caring Staff, willing to see to your Every Need."

"And the Legion?" Flaccus accepted the proffered spare tunic, and only just remembered to apply the ointment Cato had recommended for his bruises.

"Are encamped in somewhat less salubrious inns, whose keepers assure us of the exact same qualities as Master Roderigo." Tertius reached into his tunic, and produced a wedge of letters. "How astonishing. Now, Master, to your post."

Flaccus finished donning the tunic, and was surprised at the fabric. So light, so cool! "What is this?" he asked.

"It is Cotton, Master. The locals have it in great supply."

"Ah." Flaccus knew of few Romans who could afford it. Obviously, things were different here.

"Now, Master, I am obviously a mere slave. As such, I really shouldn't be searching your letters; so I wouldn't know, for example, that you are invited to at least seven dinner parties by various nobles. Nor, indeed, would I have the slightest inkling that there is a banquet to be held at Borromeo Castle tonight, and that you have been invited." Tertius flicked through the letters. "Nor that we still have to pay for one of those sheep, five sets of smashed window shutters…"

"Thank you, my good man. I shall deal with it presently." Flaccus brushed back his quiff, and prepared to leave; obviously, Primoris would be called upon to shave him later. "I feel a sudden need to take in this city in more detail, crowded or not." He would have liked to have had his walk earlier, preferably at dawn, when the market squares were still empty, and the streets only beginning to fill with people and livestock. And, more to the point, the air was sufficiently clear for his headache to be driven out by fresh morning air; but, alas…

"If I may be so bold as to intervene, Master, I have something which might be of use. Should you meet anyone who has a headache after the undue consumption of wine, this beverage may be of great help. Of course, should you want to test it first…" Tertius gingerly held out a cup, full of something hot and steaming.

How tactful! And how completely typical of Tertius, always slightly too clever, slightly too ironic, never quite giving offence. Flaccus accepted the cup, and took a sip. And another. "Whatever is this?" he asked, genuinely curious. His headache was already going.

"It is based, I believe, on what the locals call 'coffee'. It is a hot drink, similar to the Greek tea. However, Master Roderigo added a few herbs." Tertius shrugged, almost apologetically. "He was quite insistent. 'Master Legate willa be mosta interesteed'."

"Master Legate was," Flaccus said, amused. The throbbing in his temples, and the artillery duel going on behind his eyes, had quite gone. "And I am surprised that he spoke Latin."

"It was more a case of my own knowledge, courtesy of my time spent with Primus Pilus Rufus, of the Varden tongue, which these people speak with a decidedly heavy accent." Tertius bowed his head. "Do you wish to go on your walk, Master?"

"I do indeed." Preferably to somewhere pleasantly shady, but with a great deal of sunlight and open air, to read these messages. And without Bucephalus, for all his talents, turning one's arse to the hell of saddlesoredom. And something cooling to hand.

"I hope, then, that you will tolerate the presence of Marcus Thorius Mactator, the Praefectus Castorum. He has something to discuss with you, I believe." Again, this was almost apologetic. It was odd to hear this most formidable of soldiers be referred to as anything other than "Mactator". The Slaughterman.

"Of course. Will I have to wait?" Flaccus sighed, and pulled on his boots.

"He is seated outside, Master. Shall I call him in?"

Another thing about Mactator, Flaccus thought to himself, was that he had more or less no sense of subtlety. Mactator, he could tell as the little man strode in, was attempting to look like a civilian; and, despite his great beard and bush of black hair, he could almost get away with it. That is, if one was to look at him side on, the suspiciously bulky sleeve and glove hiding his metal arm. He _clanked _constantly, even as he crisply strode around in an unmistakable military gait. How many knives could a man hide? Even Tertius, with all his Greek mathematics, probably couldn't say.

"So wished to see me, Mactator," Flaccus said. He tried his utmost not to laugh.

"Indeed, Publius Cassius. Shall we go for a walk?" Mactator gestured vaguely at the door.

"Of course. Farewell, Tertius!" And, with that, the pair of them strode purposefully out the inn, and onto the street.

"What is the meaning of this-this nonsense?" Flaccus hissed the moment they were hidden in the crowds. "Cloak and dagger really does not suit you, I fear."

Mactator blushed. "It was that obvious," he said. "Good. Then they will fear me. Now, sir, I have my suspicions that there's someone out there who wants you buggered up."

"Apart from the entire Imperial Army, and probably most of the Roman one unless I can whip up a good explanation for desertion? Do enlighten me." Flaccus smiled nastily, and started counting them off on his fingers.

"Those bastards who attacked you, sir."

"Oh! I've got them figured out. A bunch of our lads, angry about their friends being cudgeled to death, and some Vardenners upset about us losing their pretty little bauble." Flaccus closed his hand. "They do not want me dead. Why didn't they kill me when they had the chance that night?

"Dead? Or under their thumb?"

"Mactator, it is not like you to be paranoid. And, I suppose, you have no evidence for this?"

"Muttewings amongst the lads. They don't like this, sir. And some may be getting desperate…" Mactator tried to shrug. "But no evidence. Nothing solid."

"And, until then, you propose to guard me? Shepherd me about the place?" Flaccus gave him a look of complete disdain. "What do you take me for?"

"A sensible man, sir, who weally should know about his health."

"Ah. I see that your lisp has returned to normal."

"Undewgwound air, sir. But there was another weason why I came to see you." They turned a corner, and found what Flaccus wanted most of all. A small, quiet square, with a few black iron chairs scattered around tables, all safely under a few whicker sun umbrellas. And, better still, with waiters on hand. This proved to be an ideal place for more prolonged conversation. Drinks were ordered quickly, with Mactator mumbling what sounded like semi comprehensible Vardennish, and the waiter nodding patiently.

"So, Mactator. Why?" Flaccus sipped at his lemon tinted wine, and sighed with pleasure. So cold! Had their magic users done that, too? Transporting snow here must have cost a fortune!

"I have an inkling, sir, that her Ladyship will be taking us somewhere violent shortly. To test us." Mactator gave a few more orders to the waiter, who nodded obsequiously. Probably cake. He had been getting a sweet tooth ever since he could afford one.

"Yes." Flaccus quickly flicked through the mass of letters. Mostly damage bills, or quartermasters' receipts-he could palm those off to Pulcher on the pretext of teaching him even more about how to conduct paperwork, and deal with awkward suppliers. There was that invitation to dinner-well, he had to accept that, although it would probably mean begging Rufus to give him some tips on after dinner witticisms, Alagaesian style. And, finally, a little strip of white paper buried at the bottom. There wasn't even a seal. It simply asked, politely, if-

"The Legate Publius Cassius Flaccus would be so good as to join the Lady Nasuada, Leader of the Varden, for a private discussion. This will take place immediately after the banquet, which is to take place in Borromeo Castle, Ancient Seat of His Most Surdan Majesty, His Royal Highness the King Orrin, First of his Name, on Midsummer's Eve." Flaccus looked up from the letter. "I would guess, Mactator, that her call to arms will take place here."

They gave each other a brief look. Both men were from utterly different backgrounds: one a career soldier, the other a Senator. Both had completely different preferences and attitudes on most issues. Both, however, recognized the other as the most competent senior officers the Legion had, the others being too inexperienced, or too Praetorian. They, together, would get this Legion ready for whatever challenge the Varden might put upon it.

"To work, then. How, Mactator, are we to plan this?"

It was only a matter of minutes before they commenced their planning. Flaccus raced back to the inn, and returned with paper and pen just as the cakes (honey cakes, Mactator's favorites) arrived. Helped by an endless stream of watered wine, provided by eternally bemused but cheerful waiters, the pair of them set to work. After an hour, orders were issued. After another, Flaccus left, and did his utmost to find Rufus.

His room in the inn was guarded (not to his immense surprise) by Gydrynne, who mimed a man knocking back several glasses of wine the moment she saw Flaccus. "He may not be quite up to talking to you, Cassius Publius-no, Publius Cassius," she said.

Flaccus noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that her dress was in a slight state of disarray. No matter. He shrugged this assurance off, and barged in anyway. Rufus had just finished dressing, and was delighted to assist his Legate. "After all, Publius Cassius, when have you last failed in diplomacy?" he asked innocently.

As bad as Tertius! "You, Spurius Julius, will help me to success this time round, or by Hercules I shall have you decimated!"

"Of course, of course. Now, let me see what I have here…" His desk was a gigantic mass of papers, each pile racing to topple over first. This, of course, was anathema to a man like Flaccus, who abhorred disorder and had an efficient secretary to arrange things for him.

"Do you know," Rufus said at the end of the afternoon, "I shall await the results of this banquet with baited breath."

Flaccus, exhausted but now well groomed, shaved and togate, simply grunted. "You will be informed," he said, and then turned and strode purposefully towards Borromeo.

The afternoon had been spent in the hardest forms of work. Mactator had excelled himself, beginning to organize a raft of initiatives, all to be paid for (of course) by the Varden treasury. Wood was to be bought in bulk. Wagons and artillery carriages were, in the mid afternoon heat (a time when, like Rome, Aberon gave itself a brief Siesta, thus emptying the streets) hitched up and vigorously tested, hurtling through the streets with their drivers whooping like charioteers and swarms of urchins scurrying along in pursuit. Slaves who had worked with Rufus were sent out to purchase every sort of assistance, be it information about the surrounding countryside, or for pleas for dwarven smiths, or requisitions of grain, or to buy new goatskin for tents, or a thousand other tasks. "A good start," was Mactator's conclusion at the end of the first day, only slightly tipsy from the wine. "It ought to take a few more weeks. Good night."

As for Flaccus, he was entirely occupied with learning such little nothings as "The blacksmiths are to be found on the right side of the street" and "The cat is seated on the doorstep." As a result, he ended up with scarcely any knowledge at all of topics sensible for the witty banter he considered himself to have mastered. Being told everything that was completely useless in the real world. What a way to learn a language!

"But your _basic understanding_ is vital!" Rufus exclaimed. "We haven't even _begun_ to cover all the accents and written grammar. As a result, we must progress to dinner talk early."

"The sun is setting, Spurius Julius," Flaccus had said, before giving his farewells.

Rufus spent the evening sitting pleasantly at the inn's bar, wondering where Gydrynne had got to, and generally at ease with the world. The barman taught him how to play a strange local game. Runes. He learned quickly, but the fire was so very warm…

The next thing he knew, he was being nudged awake. "My dear? But…" he mumbled.

"My apologies." It was Flaccus, an almost triumphant glint in his eye. "Shall I call for your mistress? I, unlike her, prefer my officers to be conscious."

It had been, as he told Rufus once seated at a deserted table (and after warding off any attempts at serving more wine by the barman) an interesting evening.

The walk to Borromeo had been decent enough. The cool evening air made a toga perfectly tolerable, even, dare Flaccus say it, to Rufus. The Castle itself, however, was heated by a fire in more or less every second room, and was smothered in tapestries. As a result, the various esteemed and honoured guests were soon sweltering like a Caledonian in a Caldarium.

This only intensified the moment they entered the banqueting hall. There, the fireplace seemed to cover an entire wall, with gaudy banners and tapestries vying for attention on every inch of brickwork. The only windows were great, stained glass monstrosities, kept firmly closed apart from tiny vents, mostly opened in the eyes of their depicted Kings and heroes, dragons and demons.

But, perhaps worst of all, was the seating plan.

"Who did they give you?" Rufus asked.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Cithri."

"And what was she like?"

About thirteen years old, all older relatives having been killed by Imperial Soldiers. On his other side was Sir Ramsay Cithron, an infant who had to be breast fed between courses, and was one of Her Grace's vassals. His relatives were all riding to the King's Army, and had left the sickliest, most vomit prone little monster to be found. "Of course, in this hot clime, I expect that cold baths and daily exercise would be out of the question. A pity."

"Were there no older nobles?" Rufus asked.

"Plenty! Just none allocated to me, Spurius Julius."

"I'm sure they meant well," Rufus muttered, but Flaccus had already began his story again.

The meal, of course, was ate sitting upright, and consisted almost entirely of meat, with small tasteless vegetables known as "potatoes", and gargantuan quantities of wine, beer, and mead (all completely unwatered.) In between courses were some of the most utterly flat attempts at humour Flaccus had ever encountered.

"They call them 'subtleties'. They are, bluntly, foodstuffs which have no use apart from looking colourful, and then being forced into one's mouth via gritted teeth." The first one of these was a great, black dyed jelly, with wings of sugar clipped onto the sides and a mass of strawberries fixed together, and stabbed into its heart. This apparently was supposed to depict the ultimate fate of Shruikan, the King's Dragon: speared through the chest by Shadeslayer's sword. The entire court, Flaccus excluded, exploded into hoots of laughter, and this was what started the Duchess talking.

"Don't you find it funny then?" she asked, wiping her eyes and still shaking with mirth.

She was an awkwardly tall woman, with a slightly spotty face, black hair allowed to cascade freely down her red clad back, and strange pieces of glass affixed in front of her face. The purpose of these was soon discovered: to help with her sight.

"And so, cursing your bad teaching, I tried to tell her all about Nero's monocle. It was a difficult business, translating my intimate knowledge of telling strangers where the hostler-"

"Please continue, Publius Cassius," Rufus said, voice hardening.

They had discussed numerous subjects, her speaking extremely slowly and making gestures which only seemed to grow more extravagantly exaggerated as she quaffed glass after tankard of whatever came to hand. It was not an unqualified success. "She wasn't at all demure, like my darling Cas. She drank, and drank, and giggled at my table manners, and muttered, and shouted, and ranted, and made that little brat vomit into his plate." He shuddered. "She also went on about her great skill as a rider, and wanted to take me somewhere and show me. I refused, of course."

"These people do seem to actually allow their women to ride horses," Rufus muttered.

"Fools. And she had a look about her." In any case, he had ended the banquet after one last, epic pudding, consisting mostly of rapidly melting cones of sugar, cream and fruit. Another Neroesque delicacy, which proved quite beyond him.

"And after this, the King dragged himself up, and decided to take us to his laboratory."

"I beg your pardon?" Rufus thought he had misheard.

"I know. He fancies himself a new Pliny. I asked my little Duchess, and she explained that it was 'Oh, where they do science and stuff', and slopped a great deal of wine about the place. 'Oops!' she giggled, and stumbles off towards His Most Surdan Majesty's century of courtiers."

Flaccus, of course, did not join them, but instead made his way towards Nasuada. She had remained seated, and gestured for him to follow her.

They had stumbled, slightly tipsy, through the endless corridors of the castle, tapestry after tapestry. For the final corridor, Nasuada had removed her shoes, and slid across the polished wood, laughing; apparently, she used to do this as a little girl, when staying in the castle. Finally, they come to a great, wooden door, which seemed to smell of secrets, down to the last snarling gargoyle and leering, twisted statue, with their-

"As a matter of fact, it was a perfectly normal door, but I like to add a sense of drama sometimes."

"I see."

And behind this perfectly normal door was a perfectly normal office, much like their rooms at the inn, but with a larger, showier tapestry.

"And what happened?"

"Spurius Julius, I would be much obliged if you would be so good as to fetch a map."

A map was duly fetched. Flaccus took a look, his shadow falling across the Empire, and stabbed at it with his finger. "Aroughs," he said. "The glittering city of Aroughs. A merchant city. Lady Nasuada is of the belief that, were the Varden forces to advance Northwards, towards Uru'baen"-the finger traced upwards-"the Empire, utilizing their vast numbers of troops, would be capable of holding both our own southern armies, and the Elves at bay, whilst transferring troops by sea to Aroughs. From there, they could rapidly strike into Surda, forcing us to retreat."

"By how much are we outnumbered?"

"The Empire, by her estimates, would be capable of fielding a total of around 300,000, if her armies were fully conscripted and marshaled, as well as at least one Dragon. In addition, they have the support of an unconfirmed number of… Urgals. By comparison, the Elven Forces to the North stand at 25,000-this being more or less the entire adult population of the elves-and our own, human forces, stand at 30,000, notwithstanding any deserters or volunteers they can muster from the Empire. In addition, we can expect reinforcements to the number of 20,000 dwarves, all fully equipped regulars."

"By Hercules." Little else needed to be said.

"Quite. However, in Nasuada's view, the Empire-apart from a small core of 16,000 professionals-employs mostly conscripted troops, poorly trained, and forced unwillingly into battle. These conscripts, moreover, will take a long time to marshal. An early strike would be able to significantly damage the Empire, hopefully denying them of some of those hundred thousands, and demoralizing them significantly. Successes may perhaps convince them to desert to us en masse."

"I see." Neither man was especially convinced. "And why not instantly attack Uru'Baen then, if they are so vulnerable at present?"

"Because that brings their dragon down on us, and I understand that our own has some sort of difficulty with his health. Well, you saw how fragile he looked, Spurius Julius. A gust of wind would probably send him tumbling, let alone His Imperial Majesty." Flaccus refused to let any hint of despondency enter his voice, no matter how he felt. "It's desperate. But she has given us joint command of a task force, to which she had pledged as many troops and supplies as we deem necessary."

"Joint command?"

"Yes. We are to receive assistance from contingents of the Varden and Surdan armies, as well as Du Vrangr Gata. That is, in case you have forgotten, the Varden magical organization."

"Just so."

The Surdan commander, the moment Flaccus had put a foot into the office, had immediately pumped his hand and greeted him loudly and at length, grinning down from his great height and waggling his moustache as he talked. He was dressed in flame coloured doublet and hose, and had a Thracian style sabre at his side. "You are the Roman!" he beamed through crooked teeth. "The Roman Legate Big-Ears!"

"That is my Nationality, my Rank, and my Cognomen's translation. You are quite correct," Flaccus had replied. "Although I am at a disadvantage."

His name, shouted loudly but joyously, was Sir Leon Dauthay-accompanied by a long, cloak twirling bow-Captain of His Most Surdan Majesty's Hose Guards.

The commander of Du Vrangr Gata was a little man, bespectacled, who looked quite the bureaucrat in his hooded robe and middle years. "My name is Goge," he said, offering his hand. "Choirmaster Goge."

"Choirmaster?"

"We sing words, and we get results. Magic words, and painful results." The last word was sang in a surprisingly melodic voice. "I am the head of a quartet."

"Ah."

"And the Varden officer?" Rufus asked.

"I am surprised you have not already guessed. After all, you and her have been accompanying each other more or less everywhere over the past few weeks. It is none other than a trouser wearing Gydrynne." Flaccus almost looked smug, knowing something that Rufus didn't. At least, it seemed that way to a tired Rufus.

"Trouser wearing?"

"Quite so. It seems that the Varden at least partly inherit their military positions, rather than giving them to the best of them. At any rate, her father was a great Military Man, and with all her male relatives dead, she is now Captain-General, capable of commanding their equivalent of several Legions. I thought before coming here that Amazons only had one breast, the other having been cut off. Now, however, I am shown to be mistaken; the whole world seems teeming with them."

"Trouser wearing!"

"Strange that you should mention that. I certainly did on the way out. She was of the belief that I considered trousers dreadful only because she was a lady, and that I thought them to be acceptable when worn by men." Flaccus' face was unreadable. "Have you not educated her about our customs and mores already?"

"That was remiss of me, Publius Cassius. Please forgive me. I suppose that… well, she was so civil, so polite… I just presumed that she knew trousers were generally barbaric as a whole."

"You must inform her."

There was a long silence, broken only by the chirruping of crickets, and the sound of a drunken procession making their way home. It was, Flaccus thought, almost peaceful compared to Rome.

"I sometimes wonder," he said after a while, "whether we should bother defending these people."

Rufus was silent.

"I mean, they are so wholly inept-kings loving laboratories, Queens skidding along floors, Kings ruling Empires, everyone getting het up about living in riches and peace-why don't we just go home? Nero could do a better job here. Domitian could-"

"No!" a voice suddenly hissed. "Not Domitian."

It was Rufus, who had his arm in a vice like grip.

"Not that tyrant," he said through gritted teeth. "That silencer of the people, that slaughterer of citizens, that oriental autocrat, that meddler, that coward! That detestable coward!"

Flaccus shrugged. He had entered the Senate in the age of Domitian, and had back then (however much he refused to admit it) found it a gentle starting point into politics. So gentle, in fact, that when military commands were on offer (rarely, in that pacific age), he had jumped at the chance to accept. Of course, none of his family had been artists or writers or unruly knights and senators. They hadn't suffered.

"You feel strongly about this," he said, in an attempt to calm him. "A good thing, then, that he is dead, and that the world has moved on."

"Do you know the manner of his death?"

Flaccus had heard rumors. "He had been predicting it for many years, and knew when it would occur. On the day, he had taken a bath, and was told that the time had passed. Cheered by this, he went to his bedroom, only to find that his slave had lied, and that there was a waiting assassin."

"But what if there was? He had a sword under his pillow. Except, of course, that someone had removed it. Now," said Spurius Julius Rufus, "who could have done that? Someone close to him, perhaps. Someone who loathed tyranny, with strong Republican sympathies. Perhaps one of his own Praetorian Guards, even."

"Perhaps. Now good night, Spurius Julius." And with that, Flaccus clambered groggily to his bed.

It had all been so out of character for all concerned that, next morning, Flaccus wondered if he might have dreamed it.

Glossary

Greek Tea: Before I get any more people telling me off for going on about plants which allegedly don't exist in the Roman World (but are actually names for plants which really do exist-see "Corn" for starters, which just means wheat or barley), the Greeks made tea out of cinnamon and cloves. Not actual tea. Coincidentally, it is not completely beyond the realms of possibility for a Roman ever to have drunk what we would call tea. After all, Rome had made contact with China. Descendents of an exceptionally intrepid band of Roman POWs have apparently turned up somewhere in China. And there was a Roman trading post on Sri Lanka.

Caledonian: Scotsman.

Caldarium: Confusingly, the very hottest room in a Roman Bath.

Subtleties: This was a genuine medieval course at the Lord 's Table. Well, I saw it on TV once, so it must be true.

Jelly: Before anyone asks, I mean the British type of jelly. I do not mean what I would call "Jam".

Nero: Roman Emperor who did not fiddle while Rome burned, but instead rushed back to help with the firefighting, organized a new fire service, planned the city to be more resilient to future fires (with little success), and then crucified the Christians thought to be responsible. (To be fair to Nero, Jews and Christians back then didn't have a spotlessly clean track record at turning the other cheek, and Christians were getting notably rowdy at that time.) He was also said to use an emerald as a lens, when his eyesight began to fail. Apparently, it was fairly successful.

One breast: Amazons reputedly cut off one of their breasts, for easier use of their weapons.

While we're on the subject of medieval women at war, they were surprisingly common. Not just Joan of Arc either. Female aristocrats, when their Lord Husband was away, were expected to look after their estates. This included defending them, and some followed this rule to the letter. Other than these, there were also female crusaders from Genoa, who Pope Boniface praised for their gallantry. Women were also sometimes used as artillery crews. Moreover, we have records of women leading armies- Phillippa of Hainhault (against the Scots) and Jeanne de Montfort, for example. Apart from these, there are the unnamed thousands of camp followers, male and female, wives, whores, washerwomen, salespeople and so on, who followed armies around (and continued to do so until quite recently-probably some still do) doing mundane jobs, and who probably eventually got caught up in the fighting on occasion. Men were still expected to do most of the fighting, but women could sometimes join in when needed.

Domitian: Emperor in 81-96. Notable for his highly autocratic policies, centralizing power towards himself rather than the Senate, censoring art and writing, executing his opponents, and not conducting many of the victorious wars that the Roman people craved. At the same time, he also provided reasonably effective administration. His death, as recounted above, was notably dramatic in an age of extremely flamboyant, sticky ends.


	7. II: Steel

Another chapter. Hooray! As promised, the plot will really kick into gear, which means plenty of swashbuckling. Be warned: if you clicked on the inviting blue words expecting an absence of swordplay, and instead a non plot of the nature of so very many Earth/Alagaesia crossovers (read: girl meets Eragon, makes cute), please stop now. This isn't to say that I haven't tried to include engaging, sympathetic characters (or, at the very least, bold and characterful cut outs), but the primary objective of this story is to be a _Sharpe_ like military adventure, with added dragons, magic, occasional satire of _Inheritance_ and historical miscellany in gigantic dollops. So, frankly, written for almost entirely my own amusement. If anyone else likes it, that's a mere coincidence.

(Note for the mysteriously named "Pie": The Ancients also reckoned Camomile tea to be an effective medicine. So do many modern people, although I would guess that they are mostly old, or new agers who hang around "Mysteries of the East Grow Your Own Mind Tranquility Crystal for the Balance of Nature" shops too much.)

A final note: this chapter could involve military marches, songs etc being sung. As you may have discerned from my last attempt, my skill at making these things up on the spot is somewhat poor. As a result, I'll have a deplorable habit of stealing and Roman/Varden/Surdan/Empireising existing ones. So, if you come across something vaguely familiar, then please don't punish me for plagiarizing that hard.

"_What is the meaning of our retinues, what of our swords? Surely it would never be permitted to us to have them if we might never use them." Cicero, For Caelio_

The next morning, Flaccus roused himself early; and, after accepting one of Master Roderigo's coffees, decided that they had no time to lose: they would march in three days. As such, with Tertius and Mactator hurrying after him in pursuit, he strode off to his favorite café, and began to make preparations for the campaign.

With the wine flowing, it was discerned that their total forces reached a grand total of 8000 Varden foot, 500 Surdan horse, 4 magic users, and of course the XIII Adiutrix itself: 3603 foot soldiers, 40 artillery pieces, 1208 slaves with their wagons, 95 cavalrymen, and 87 cavalry horses. As such, the first priority was to beg, borrow and ("Preferably or, but and if necessary") steal 8 horses to make up the numbers.

Now that it was ascertained to be a siege, Mactator and Flaccus were both in their element. Carriage loads of supplies were constantly coming and going. Mactator was often to be found in conversation with Pygmy smiths over some project or other, both parties gesticulating wildly and bending over tables of figures. Slaves rushed back and forth, in the typical ordered chaos of a Legion making ready for war, carrying letters and crates and barrels of all sorts. Notably, sizeable quantities of incendiaries were being stacked into extremely heavily guarded wagons, and-to the surprise of Varden onlookers-wooden stakes were being stacked higher and higher. Too big for artillery ammunition. What were these Romans doing? Making their own fort?

On each night, Flaccus had a special errand. The first one went to Pulcher.

"Ah, Gnaeus Aurelius." He leaned back in his chair, and stared out at the slowly setting sun. "Be seated, please."

Pulcher, shivering slightly at the evening cool, sat.

His task was simple. The simplest thing in the world! He, Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher, head Military Tribune and animal lover, would learn the secret workings of Magic. His advice was to get one of the Varden magic users drunk, and grill them thoroughly; the books were proving singularly uninformative.

"How would I know how to do that?" he asked innocently. "I can't even name any bars in the whole of Alagaesia! After all, my evenings have been spent in quiet contemplation, exercise, and hard work."

"Gnaeus Aurelius, another lesson: never try to bribe my slaves to look the other way." Pulcher immediately blushed a deep crimson. "Tertius claims to have seen you inebriated on numerous occasions in Tronheim when he was going to a cock fight. He took your gold, but informed me anyway. I deduce, therefore, that the likelihood of you knowing nothing about this city's drinking shops is vanishingly small, and that you having already arranged several discreet evenings off exceptionally large. You know your methods" Pulcher had indeed seen Tertius leaving what could be termed a "cock fight" (although most likely not what Flaccus would call it), and could only nod shame faced.

This proved not to be excessively difficult. Like an avenging God, he had found Choirmaster Goge, introduced himself in halting Alagaesian (as he preferred now to call the language), and took him to the _Dragon and Castle_. It was then a simple matter of drinking him to raving, and then under the table, discovering in the meantime that Goge could sing quite magnificently, even while dancing on an upturned ale keg. He had a perhaps unfair advantage in this endeavor thanks to the Roman habit of watering one's wine, whereas the Varden Goge took his wine undiluted. The results of the evening were a thorough, if slightly wine and vomit spattered set of notes. He was congratulated personally by Flaccus, and went to bed feeling mellow, and extremely proud of himself. The next morning, he made a small libation to Bacchus.

"Interesting," Rufus said later the next day, after scouring the notes. "Very interesting." It had transpired that the books the Varden provided had several key omissions. Most importantly, perhaps, was one concerning defense against magic. Both agreed that, with some types of magic user, the best defense was to concentrate extremely hard on one single thought, and never to let one's concentration falter. The Varden books, however, insisted that these were only a certain type of magic user, one so diabolical that the Varden would never stoop to use it for such things as mind control or mind reading. No, their magic users would only be told what the recipient wanted them to hear. Flaccus decided to believe Pulcher's version, on balance.

The second errand was to the Legion's youngest military tribune, Lucius Lutatius Nerva. As he was presently suffering from a local fever, he may seem an unlikely candidate for important errands, but nevertheless he resolved to undertake his task with notable dedication.

It was after Mactator had informed Flaccus that, possibly, it could take more than three days for certain key items to be fetched from far afield, due to city merchants either running out of stock, or refusing to sell any more, that he had the idea. "We need," he said, "an embassy in Aberon." This was to represent the Roman Empire, and-perhaps more importantly-keep a look out for key developments so as the Legion wouldn't be deceived so easily. With his customary efficiency and refusal to listen to any objection, he set forth. Twelve slaves were swiftly rounded up. All were literate, and hastily pressed into service. Eight men were soon found also, who looked impressive but were currently too ill for active service, to act as an honour guard. Finally, Nerva, as he combined his senatorial rank with a craven cowardice according to every Centurion and Legionary who ever encountered him, as well as being currently too ill for proper military duties, was chosen as the ambassador. Flaccus told him whilst he was lying on his sick bed; the fellow looked more relieved than anything else. In addition, a cohort was left behind to escort the supplies.

And, finally, the third day. A brief message was read out to the troops, informing them of where the campaign was to take place, and that they would be fighting alongside gallant Varden and Surdan allies, none of whom were the degenerate pygmies of Tronjheim. Particularly, it emphasized that it was expected to be a poorly defended merchant city, of considerable wealth, where the inhabitants had a lot of portable property, and a great deal of plump countryside surrounding it. Furthermore, they were also advised to fraternize with their fellow soldiers whenever possible. Mactator, in between roaring at pygmy smiths, sketched out plans for a small bath that could be quickly dug at any convenient river. He emphasized that all soldiers, of all nationalities, would be allowed to use it, but only in friendly territory.

For their last night before setting forth, the Legion's Executores were given another invitation to dinner: this time, at the officers' mess of the Surdan Horse Guards, Lord Cithri's Regiment. This, after a brief period of consideration, Flaccus accepted. As usual, Mactator was left with the Legion and a good supply of cakes, so as he could add any finishing touches before it could march. And so, for the last time in several months, their slaves laboriously folded their togas around them, and bade them farewell.

Flaccus, Pulcher and Rufus were not unduly surprised to find that their directions took them, once again, to Borromeo Castle; trust the Varden to get the best billets. But it was a nice place to walk to, through the balmy evening, with the sun sinking over the plains, and Aberon's taverns opening around them. And, to Flaccus' pleasant surprise, even a pleasant place to walk through. The vast, swaddling masses of tapestries and banners had been mostly packed away, brushing all memories of the Feast's oppressive, sweltering, vile heat away instantly. A liveried footman led them through the labyrinthine mess of corridors, giving each a running commentary about what Rufus took to be their history (although his accent and quickness of speech was quite impenetrable.)

Eventually, they found another nondescript wooden door. The footman bowed, knocked, and scurried off, feet echoing off the walls. For an uneasy moment, Rufus felt himself in those hellish tunnels under Tronjheim.

He shivered.

And the door swung open.

The dining hall, as Sir Leon explained happily, was the officers' mess of the Surdan Horse Guards, Lord Cithri's Regiment; and no one who entered that room was ever allowed to forget it. For it was more a museum than anything else.

Despite it being not particularly large, the guided tour still took a surprisingly long time. Sir Leon Dauthay believed it essential to explain every aspect of the room's history, for everything-down to the last candle on the chandelier-was deeply involved in regimental history. "You see," he said, pointing up at a tattered banner, the twisting fire in the corner the only symbol visible on the faded red cloth, "We took that one there from the Imperial Eighth of the Line at the field of Belatona-quite something for a small raiding party!" He smiled as if it were only yesterday, rather than over sixty years ago, and as if he had himself carried his saber to the fight. "That was in the Lord Captain Girdaz's day. A great man, a great drinker too! He loved the wine, the women, and the song." He laughed. "But now we have Lord Captain Smidoreno, who saved the bacon of another guest I could mention!"

Gydrynne reddened, but laughed softly. Tonight, at long last, she had dispensed with widow's black, instead wearing something close to a Varden uniform. Unlike the Surdan one, all ruffles and ribbons and flame coloured cloth, covered with braid and lace, she was dressed soberly, in purple. A purple jacket, a purple skirt, with the Varden Dragon and sword embroidered on the back. For Flaccus' tastes, it was all quite hideously decadent-her ankles showed!-but this didn't seem to bother Rufus or Pulcher in the slightest.

"It wasn't my father's fault that the Jiet Bridge was collapsed early; I always supposed it was the Surdan recommended agent who made the mistake." Both laughed, disengaged, readied new swords of regimental history, and struck again.

At that table, in that room, Flaccus found, one could scarcely move for the mass of shades jostling for elbow room. The knives and forks were from a traitorous Dwarf Lord's stash, brought to justice fifteen years ago by Trooper Oritheo. The drinking horn with the gilt decorations was from the Dragon Mateleus' own talons, one of the Forsworn's greatest Lords brought down by Lord-Captain Raymar in single combat, and thereafter used for his old Company's amusement. Each bowl looked different, and each had its own story; one was from Sergeant Guthite's mistress, the bastard daughter of an old Imperial family ("They have their own marching song now, most unsuitable for ladies, but most suitable for everyone else!"); another, popular rumour said, from Galbatorix's own table. Even the music played after the meal-_The Wandering Urgal _-was in ironic salute to the Riding Ram tribe of Urgals, who it had taken twelve charges to break. Everything was steeped in history, everything a tradition from centuries past. The Alagaesian senior officers constantly ribbed each other about their regimental history, the Romans listened politely, and the two Alagaesian junior officers sat quietly, glasses in hands, their eyes generations away.

This certainly proved more amusing for a man, such as Rufus, with a complete knowledge of Alagaesian (as he was now calling the local tongue) than it was for Flaccus and Pulcher, who nodded firmly, smiled vaguely and picked at their soup. (Flaccus, Rufus had to say, played bullshitting like a master. Senators, he reflected, never changed.) They had also brought Choirmaster Goge (who constantly directed venomous looks at Pulcher, rubbing at his head; Pulcher, as he was sitting next to him, smiled and tried to suggest one of Master Rogerigo's coffees.)

"You know," he said airily, "there's nothing to be angry about! We drank together, and still have all sorts of things to talk about! Are you married, Choirmaster?"

Grunt.

"Weather good today, wasn't it," Pulcher said loudly and cheerfully, reaching out to ruffle the little Choirmaster's hair.

"Go 'way."

"But I can't, you see! We're at dinner together, and it would be most impolite. Do you want to sing again? The one about the Dragon and the Milkmaid was superb, as I recall." Pulcher's smile only seemed to broaden as the Choirmaster squirmed. It was apparent that he himself had had a bit too much to drink.

Flaccus, of course, tried to make conversation with Gydrynne's Lieutenant, who introduced himself as Cottwood Claye, but otherwise said little. He was a man of middling height, distinguished by rigidly parted grey hair, and a small moustache. "A pleasure!" he said forcefully, and shook Flaccus' hand vigorously, before returning to his reverie.

The food itself, served out of the plates and cutlery of half a continent, was something of a disappointment: wholly average, with the same heavy emphasis on meat, bread and ale as ever. Pulcher was beginning to long for fish, even considering taking a few from his dream pond; he practically gagged on what Flaccus had a habit of calling the "stuff of the honest citizen" before having a cup of sweetly honeyed and spiced wine.

As for Rufus, he got more than a few words in edgeways with Gydrynne. Her Father and Husband before her had both commanded the family Regiment, and she hoped that she would continue to do so, with courage and honour. Rufus looked at her, watched her eyes dart at the military men sitting around her, observed their approving smiles, and understood perfectly.

At great length, the meal came to an end. Toast after toast was made, with Flaccus, Sir Leon Dauthay and Gydrynne-no, Captain-General Gydrynne now- taking turns- "Bacchus!" "King Orrin!" "King's End!" and so on, drifting off into the night.

And, finally, a tipsy Flaccus putting his hand on Rufus' shoulder; "A word with you, please. Keep going, Tribunus Laticlavus! Another l-l-thing to teach you: toast making!" Pulcher, gloriously drunk from the unwatered wine and mead, raised his glass and joined in with the next round.

The next words to pass Flaccus' lips however, safely outside the Mess, were entirely more sober, in both aspects of the word.

"Spurius Julius. For too long, I think, you have been at my side. Your work has been extremely useful. Your translations will enable Romans for generations to come to prosper in Alagaesia, spreading the incalculable richness of the Roman way. For this, I thank you." Flaccus paced whilst he said, this, and then did his trick of turning to face Rufus. "But you are my First Spear, my Primus Pilus. You are the Centurion of the First Century of the First Cohort. Your men, I believe, need you. You will join them tomorrow. You may ride, but not ahead of them. I bid you good luck."

Rufus was speechless, but only for a moment. "I-"

"You are not needed at headquarters, Spurius Julius. Not for now, at any rate. You will join the men, and fight alongside them." Flaccus' eyes, for a brief moment, softened. "A Legion's Executores have to be seen to be sharing the plight of their men, especially when so far from home, fighting for a cause that none of them seem to believe in."

"I believe in it!" was all Rufus could say.

"So I surmised from last night. You should therefore be quite well suited to leading the men. Your fervour will doubtless influence them to fight all the harder." Flaccus' eyes hardened again. "Or are you, perhaps, a coward? A Praetorian skulking in Rome, more used to stealing a sword than wielding it?"

Rufus' blood ran cold. "Is it that you don't want one such as me at your side, Flaccus?" he spat.

"I do not want a coward, and the men want their leader. I am your legate, Primus Pilus Rufus. You will obey." And that was that. "Now, let us return to their delightful dinner. I gather that Gnaeus Aurelius wants to introduce these people to some of his charming drinking songs. We must endeavor to prevent it from getting too out of hand."

When they were alone later that night, Colonel Gydrynne wondered why Rufus was so downcast. He told her.

"Oh." And then: "Oh dear." She knew him well. Too well to imagine him as a good front line soldier. "Good luck."

The next day, the army moved out, leaving Tribune Nerva's embassy in Aberon. Flaccus, as with all educated Romans, had a passion for sending letters; almost as great a passion, indeed, as Publipor Tertius had for indulging his Athenian side and discreetly adding Greek colour and metaphor to what he saw as the unduly sparse, excessively predictable Latin style, with-Ye Gods!-the horrifying predilection of him referring to himself in third person. Deep down, he imagined that his Master knew, and for a while after his beating he tried to suppress this urge; but not for very long. He would write the letter, and send it to Aberon via one of Choirmaster Goge's "Singers" trying to read the Latin aloud in his or her mind. The result was occasionally garbled words; the first time the postman had delivered the letter, freshly copied from Du Vrangr Gata's Communications Office, he said that it was for a mysterious "Lewsheus Lutaetius Nurva," which wouldn't do at all.

"It's Lookeus Lutahtius Nairva!" the Tribune exclaimed angrily, before settling down to read it, wine at the ready.

P. Cassius Flaccus, to L. Lutatius Nerva, Greetings.

Imagine if you will a city, moments before the dawn. All the streets are empty, until one enters the slums. There, there has been blood. Brawls, thieves and want of bread have done their work there, many times over. There are moans, songs, screams. But few. Only early in the morning do the Vigiles put up a token presence; old men fear the darkness so much more than the young, for they know its horrors well. The swinging of lanterns and the marching patrols stumble through streets, and for a time it quietens down. But only for a time. The quiet lies, and lasts. Night, and lawlessness, remains.

And then a trumpet sounds.

In the thinnest sliver of Aberon, for the briefest of moments, there is light, order. Lanterns are raised, and close on fifteen thousand men shoulder their packs and march forth. Close on thirty thousand hands grip the yokes of their packs, or the shafts of spears, or the reins of horses; and close on sixteen thousand feet march rigidly in step, to the beat of drums. Varden officers ride with their swords drawn in salute of a populace which is now starting to arise, to awaken. Cheers are heard, as shutters are heaved open and heads protrude. Oxen and horses grunt and neigh in response, but the songs and shouts of the troops are loudest of all. "Aroughs by Vrael's End!" someone shouts. A flower is thrown, and a Surdan cavalryman catches it, kisses the petals, and expertly throws it back towards its home. A girl catches it, blushing. Trajan's face, held proudly aloft by the Imagifer, almost smiles, as his finest soldiers march forth to the rising sun, victory, and glory!

Of course, Flaccus had found this difficult to organize; once again, the locals found it difficult to accept that their troops, mere allies of Rome, march behind the Legion. Eventually, the decision was made that the First Cohort, with the Image of Trajan raised, should march alongside the Surdan cavalry troop's colour party, and the standard bearers of the Varden regiments. Behind them should come the mass of horse, foot and wagon, each century, troop and company alternately placed.

Once the army left Aberon, of course, this magnificent charade of parade drill collapsed more or less immediately. Flaccus, however, was sufficiently experienced to know that it always did, and leave the other officers to panic. Whilst they rode back and forth, brandishing orders and staffs of office, helmet plumes bobbing feverishly up, he asked Tertius to read him a book of Martial's _Epigrams_, gifted to him by his good wife Aurelia, and forcing himself to chuckle occasionally. The complaints from the Legion were of the normal sort, and as ever they came in waves: as soon as one man saw it fit to complain, another usually found the same fault, and it would thus pass from century to cohort, intensifying each time. The defensive stakes were too heavy. The caligae were breaking up on these roads, or on the grass, or in the mud. Why, Decurion Macedonicus wanted to know, couldn't we have purchased any of those newfangled Varden horse shoes? And I'm sure this local meat is a bit maggoty-I heard Sextus' crawled across the floor when he put it down! Nothing out of the ordinary, when campaigning in foreign country. Nothing.

And, for six days, it remained completely ordinary. Decurion Macedonicus and Sir Leon's cavalry patrols reported nothing too strange. The countryside was nothing especially unusual for a country preparing for war; the villages were emptying of menfolk, the roads beginning to fill with recruiting Sergeants leading their charges along; and food was for sale at double the normal price. The various villages they passed through reported nothing strange. The Romans pitched their fortified camps out of habit, more than anything else (the Varden, typically, declined, sleeping under the stars on those hot summer nights.) And Surda dozed.

On the seventh day, all that changed.

Decurion Macedonicus was that rarest of things: a Greek cavalryman in a Roman army. Most units used Auxilia from almost everywhere: Gallic cavalrymen with severed heads at their saddles and braided hair to their waists; allied Mauritanians, bareback and lightly armed; even Dromedarii on their strange, bad tempered beasts; but few Greeks. Flaccus, of course, had been initially dubious at the value of a horseman from the land of Hoplites and mountains, but he was soon convinced when he was informed of two important facts: that Macedonicus, as his name suggested, was from Macedon; and that he had called his unit the _Hetairoi_, the Companions, and that Macedonicus himself was descended from one of Alexander's elites. Sweeping back his quiff, Flaccus had shaken his hand, talked happily to him in Greek, and welcomed him in.

He certainly seemed up to the task, too. Young, tall, with curly black hair and a great white horse, even Pulcher would begrudgingly admit that he had a certain physical charm to ladies. But, most importantly of all, he was almost suicidally brave, which was why when he reported to the Legate, his spear tip was bloodied and his eyes sparkling with delight. "We have met the enemy!" he crowed, brandishing his spear again. "We have met 'em, and beat 'em!"

"So I see, Decurion." Flaccus cast an eye along the man's scouting Turma, and noted two empty saddles. "You have taken losses?"

"A couple of good horses, four men. Meander, Lysander, Samuel and Ducorix." Macedonicus, ever the cavalryman, shrugged. Someone had once said that any horseman who reached thirty was either a blackguard, or a liar. Flaccus hadn't worked out which one was true for Macedonicus. "Good hunting, though. Bagged a brace of 'em in person!"

Gradually, the story came out. The Hetairoi had been riding on scout duty, far ahead of the main column, when they had come upon the village of Cadarn. This, as it was marked on the beautifully drawn map provided by the Surdans-a rare commodity, easily worth its weight in gold for cavalry scouts- was entirely expected; but Macedonicus had sent five men forward to investigate, just in case. He had crouched down behind an old burial mound- very Celtic, he thought- and had stared out at the village.

Which, the moment the riders had approached, erupted into chaos. He could see men streaming out of buildings, swinging into the strange local stirrups and low saddles, grabbing packs, saddlebags, weapons. Cavalrymen! He ran to his horse, and was about to gleefully order a charge when his troop Tessarius grabbed his elbow. "There's fifty of 'em at least," he said. "We're outnumbered."

"So we just sit here?" Macedonicus spat derisively.

"Wait, sir. Wait,"

He had turned back to watch his scouts, when suddenly they seemed to crumple, horses and men tumbling and screaming in a great whirl. Magic? This almost penetrated his iron clad enthusiasm; but then he noticed that they had arrows sticking out of them. Short arrows, shot at a longer range than they had any right to. As he watched, two riderless horses nuzzled at their twitching, bleeding riders. Well, that was that! No one shot at his men and got off scot free!

Macedonicus got into the saddle in one flying leap, and drew his sword. "Phobos kai Deimos!" he cried. "Horses of the God of War!" His troopers mounted up, formed into the battle line, and readied their spears. "By the walk!" he ordered, brandishing his sword at Cadarn.

The troop Tessarius groaned inwardly. They would be slaughtered, whatever his Decurion thought. There were too many of them, and with those bows! But, as a Roman soldier, he obeyed.

But the enemy didn't seem to know that. For, rather than overwhelming the little turma in a charge, the enemy seemed more intent on fleeing for their lives! The Imperial Horse thundered away from the Turma in a wild, red cloud, leaving dust and dung in its wake. There was no order, no coordination. Here a banner could be seen, there a dark cloaked rider with a trumpet but-despite bawled orders and obscenities- they didn't even try to rally.

Macedonicus took this all in with a professional's eye. Should he pursue the cavalry? Or secure Cadarn? His cavalry instinct yearned to pursue the vermin, whatever the cost, and trust in Ares and his swordarm. His horseman's instinct, however, told him that the Imperial cavalry already had a considerable head start, and that any pursuit would result in him tiring his horses to lather. Which, no matter how undisciplined the enemy, was a bad thing. So, sighing, he turned to the village. "At the trot!" The turma formed into two lines, each fifty paces apart. If the front rank fell, from arrow or javelin or witch's curse, the second rank could flow around their corpses without being thrown from their saddles by dead horses. Macedonicus, needless to say, was in the middle of the front rank, hair blowing in the wind, grinning all over his face, horse high stepping and joyful.

The village seemed to loom ahead; all thatched roofs and white walls, the road broad and pure. An overgrown waystation, someone remarked, and just then shutters opened and the buzzing of arrows filled the air.

Macedonicus raised his sword high. He could hear a man grunt as an arrow smashed through his breastplate, but his horse kept galloping. "Horses of the God of War!"

"Horses of the God of War!" the troop thundered and, leveling their spears, they charged.

The horses were at the gallop, the wind flattening his helmet plume, the joy of it surging through him. This was the life! A fast horse, flat ground, and now, he could see as he leant against the neck of his horse and yelled his heart out, a broken enemy.

A scattering of red tunics, seeing the mass of horsemen bearing down of them, had ran from cottages and made a run for their horses. "You won't get away with that!" Macedonicus thought, and was surprised that he'd said it aloud with righteous indignation. "Fight me!" They seemed oddly reluctant to oblige him, so he dug his knees into the flanks of his horse, and went for them, ahead of his men. He didn't need to command them, really, for they were good horsemen, and had scoured and looted many a village in the past. Keep on horseback for as long as possible to intimidate them, then once inside jump off, kick doors in, herd the frightened cottagers out at spear point, and kill the enemy. The usual step after that was to steal valuables and burn everything; but, as this town was supposedly friendly, Macedonicus had reluctantly agreed to leave this one out.

A few of them had scrambled into saddles before they even noticed him. But one, an unshaven boy under his helmet, glanced up to see the howling Greek bearing down on him. He reached for his sword, screamed, and died as Macedonicus took his head off in one cut-

"A difficult cut, that," Macedonicus said proudly. "Tricky thing. Have to up just so, time the swing just right, and gallop right past him! One of my Gauls- Abellius- has it, if you want proof. Disgusting habit, head taking, but useful this time round."

"Continue, Decurion," Flaccus said, hoping he didn't go into too much bloody detail. "I trust in your swordsmanship, of course."

-all those mounted rode away, save for one. An old, grey moustached man, with three stripes on his sleeve and rotted teeth, who drew his cavalry sword and back cut desperately, barking down at the others to save themselves, to retreat-that, at least, was all Macedonicus could make out. "Get your drink sodden souls away! Go on!" He lashed out again, but Macedonicus took his blow on his shield. Their horses, both battle trained, skipped lightly, circling around as their riders crossed swords in a ritual as old as Homer, as old as war itself. The duel.

The soldier cursed Macedonicus, cursed and swore and spat. "Varden Dog! Scum! Tosspot!"

Macedonicus waited for him to tire himself out, parrying and blocking all the while, and was thus able to save his best till last. "Parricide," he hissed, before battering his foe's sword aside with his shield, and stabbing his horse. The beast reared, and died in an extremely painful and detailed manner. The rider was treated to the sight of a few red tuniced cavalrymen being dragged out of buildings and impaled. He himself was set aside for interrogation.

"And what did you learn?" asked Gydrynne. The senior officers rode together in a clump of horses, servants, slaves and subordinates, all dressed in different uniforms and using different systems for everything from signing orders to horsemanship. Yet another symbol of the Free Peoples United Against Tyranny, or perhaps a disaster waiting to happen as orders were misunderstood, troops deployed by leaders with no idea of their capabilities, and a thousand arguments itching to spring forth.

Macedonicus blinked with surprise, and explained. The rider was one Sergeant Feldman, of the 2nd Belatonan Light Horse. The troop had stopped in Cadarn to rest, and had treated the civilians with every courtesy-

"They did, did they?" Sir Leon sneered.

"Apparently so. A few stolen chickens, nothing out of the ordinary. No one defiled, no homes burned, their food and drink paid for with good coin." Macedonicus took a breath to continue.

"The theft of chickens sounds very much out of the ordinary," Gydrynne said, with chilly politeness. "The Lady Nasuada, I believe, has convicted soldiers for just such an offence."

"Ma'm," Sir Leon said, trying his utmost to keep his temper, "I have fought in the cavalry since I was fourteen years of age. When I was six, I started to train with weapons, to ride, to be a good knight. In my Castle, they hang a sword over the bed of newborn boys, knowing he will soon draw it in anger. In this time, I have learned a great deal about battle. Soldiers are, sadly, drawn from the scum of the earth, and it's a miracle that we make heroes of them."

"That is not so in the Varden," Gydrynne sniffed.

"It is so in Surda, and doubly so in an army using conscripted peasants rather than patriotic volunteers. When a troop of soldiers ride into a village far from home, they are hungry, frightened. Things often go missing." Sir Leon, with obvious effort, shrugged. "I'm all ears, as they say, Decurion? Yes, Decurion."

Flaccus, in a remarkably astute turn, didn't point out that looting was commonly accepted practice in the Legions, and contented himself with listening to Macedonicus.

They had treated the civilians with every courtesy, and were there to purchase more rations for their continued patrol. However, as soldiers do, a number of them had got drunk to the point of near paralysis. The commander had given the order to leave them behind; but Sergeant Feldmann, and a few others, volunteered to defend them until they sobered up, and then catch up later. The rest of the troop had ridden off upon seeing Macedonicus' men, leaving Feldman to hold his position. With commendable devotion, he held out, refusing to give up any information, and was then executed. As to his troop, they appeared to be riding Westward. "And that," Macedonicus said, "concludes my report, sir."

"Indeed. Why did you not bring him in for questioning?" Flaccus gripped his cane.

Macedonicus shrugged. "I set two men on him with spear shafts and boots. That's usually enough to set most people's tongues wagging."

"You neglected magic?"

Macedonicus blushed. "I'm sorry, I really am, it just slipped my mind. I'm not used to it, and-"

Sir Leon was open mouthed, Gydrynne hiding her amusement. "You have… _nothing_ in your country?" he spluttered after a moment.

"Magic? Of course! The Sibylline Books, augurs, goodness knows how many oriental quacks and Gallic mumblers! Sadly, I have never encountered anyone of your caliber." Flaccus nodded to Choirmaster Goge. "Or with your manner of doing things."

Gydrynne's second in command, Cottwood Caye, wanted to know what an augur was, and then remarked that, when doing some undercover work in Teirm, he had himself come across a fortune teller. A woman called Angela. Used bones, dice, that sort of thing. Not birds, as I recall. In fact, he doubted she was a seer at all! Damn fine Witch though, damn fine, saved more good men than he could count. Good fighter. By such means was another dispute avoided.

"Could you produce the weapon they fired at you with, please?" Gydrynne asked.

"Fired?" Macedonicus looked blankly. "You mean shot?"

"Yes," Gydrynne said, like a parent explaining a simple fact of life. "I do. Is that not obvious?"

"No. Why do you people say fire?"

"I know this!" Sir Leon thought for a moment. "Ah. Dragon riders ordered their charges to breathe fire with that order, and we soldiers love to copy our elders and betters, even as we ride, womanize and sing for them!"

"That does make sense," Flaccus said approvingly. Trying to copy from his historical betters was his expertise. "In any case, you were shot at. Could you show it to us?"

"Absolutely. Looks like a little ballista." Macedonicus snapped his fingers, and a soldier produced it.

"A gastraphetes," Flaccus muttered.

"No, a crossbow," Sir Leon said. "A brutal little toy. Long ranged, but too slow for a true archer. Galby Empire, though, loves them. Toss them to a peasant, tell him how to draw and shoot, and he could kill-he could kill me!" This seemed to offend him.

"A Roman, then could use one? Good. Collect every one you find-make a note of this, Tertius. I have a plan for them!" Flaccus, if he wasn't mounted, would have started pacing with intellectual vigour.

"Indeed, Master."

"So, this cavalry troop. Deep in Surda, riding in our rough direction." Sir Leon tugged at his beard thoughtfully. "I doubt it's coincidental."

"Could you furnish me with an explanation?" Choirmaster Goge asked.

Sir Leon did not; so they promptly moved on to the next business of the day. Namely, asking Macedonicus exactly what supplies Cadarn could yield.

For another week, the army marched on. They passed along roads through the desert, near the strange "Burning Plains", the precise nature of which no one seemed to know, but all feared. They passed Dauth, and spent their final night in Surda encamped around Sir Leon's castle, a gnarled old crag, toughed by years and barely softened by the smattering of vinyards that kept its Lord in horses, capes and swords. The wine flowed easily, at great length. Tomorrow, they would march to another new country, full of new enemies and, if rumours were to be believed, all manner of the worst sort of horrors. Strange, dark men on birds of leather and wicked talons rubbed shoulders with the twisting fires of the King being applied to captives in ways that got darker and gorier as more wine was drunk, and more Varden veterans attracted legionaries, like moths to a mocking, boozing flame. Sir Leon apologized that they could not stay longer, for there were still plentiful foxes to chase, and the aviary was receiving a new shipment of birds soon-his children, sadly away for their schooling, would have been delighted to take them round. He ended the evening, after watching a delightful troop of minstrels delivering _The Rider War_, an epic Round song, raising his cup. "Gentlemen. Ladies. Today's fox." Then he drank, and passed out.

Flaccus wrote the letter, informing Nerva of future military developments. They would split their force into three parts. There were two main roads to Aroughs, and he made his deployments accordingly. The Legion, as it had by far the most engineers, would head for Aroughs first, accompanies by a company of archers. The Varden foot would follow, and, as skilled light infantry with a great knowledge of the area, would scour the marshes with one part of their force, the other taking the second road to Aroughs. Sir Leon's cavalry would scour the countryside, sending patrols before and behind the main force, searching for towns and villages, and for concentrations of enemy troops. Of particular priority for his reconnaissance was the state of the local harvest. Sir Leon was surprised at this, but obeyed anyway.

We hope you are in good health. Farewell.

Nerva's reply, in summary, was that Aberon was in uproar. Lady Nasuada was constantly running low on money, and rumours were flooding through of a mysterious child visiting her court, and becoming her constant companion, of Black Hand assassins stalking their leaders, of the Black Hand being a secret pact between the King and various Devils, and every sort of crime being swiftly attributed to them. The honour guard, fortunately, had recovered, and security was being increased.

Flaccus' second letter arrived shortly after the first. It is notable, perhaps, in how little Tertius seems to have interfered in certain parts.

P. Cassius Flaccus, to L. Lutatius Nerva, Greetings

Spurius Julius Rufus sends his regards, and would be honoured to assist the Lady Nasuada in any way he can. His uncle served under his governor of Judea, and considered himself knowledgeable about such things, often informing his family that he was "a man of Vespasian's day." Were this uncle alive, it is likely that he would advocate increasing taxation, by whatever means necessary, and on whatever sources necessary-salt, grain, tariffs, the hiring of servants, and so on. The Varden, inexplicably, has an aversion to taxes, seeing them as impinging upon the freedom of their people. That may be so; but the aversion Orrin will feel when the red tunics are marching into his throne room because he couldn't afford to feed his army will be all the greater. Whilst on the subject, denying soldiers of their boots if they are punished will simultaneously save money.

Our march into the Empire was initially tense. On the first day, the cavalry scouts remained relatively close to the Legion, and the men marched in silence. To their eyes, every tree seemed towering and oppressive, every cloud thunderous and dark, and every tiny pebble or shadow hiding some magic toting menace, ready to spring at them on a moment's notice. As the dust cloud of the marching Varden foot drew away into the distance, they began, once again, to feel as strangers in a strange land.

But, perhaps because they had grown used to this, they began to recover their spirit as the days rolled by. The villages were not so very different to those of Surda, their people just as curious, and perhaps somewhat suspicious; but Nasuada's standing orders were to purchase food with good, Varden coin. Flaccus' standing orders were to steal every crossbow to be found; a bow that could penetrate armour at long range was a valuable thing. Both were obeyed to the letter.

One remarkable thing about Imperial peasantry was just how many were beginning to wear a strange, dark lace; as bandannas and dress hems, neck cloths and belts. This was, as time went on and they marched further, often being sold, remarkably cheaply. The Varden Captain Swiner, whose archers were accompanying the Legion, could not explain it, leaving it to Tenor Skeate, the attached magic user. "Not real lace," she muttered after a cursory glance, before riding on. "The Devil's lace. Traps 'em, poor sods."

For two more wonderful weeks, they marched with little incident. Inevitably, local habits were being picked up. Many men now smoked, crudely puffing little rings up into the night. Magical defense practice was being enforced daily, with men being ordered to focus on something, anything, at a word of command from the Centurion, and to maintain focus on it for as long as possible. Smoking, perhaps, was an activity conducive to being alone with one's thoughts. A smattering of horsemen were now using stirrups, as they galloped round and round, leaping hay bales and ducking branches, performing all manner of horseplay in their free time, even racing occasionally; Macedonicus handled the betting admirably well, with archers and legionaries alike pitching in. The crossbowmen, numbering about twenty or so, were as involved in local custom as any; but results were disappointing. Centurions had a habit of gathering together the weakest, feeblest, most drunken troublemakers from their ranks and, having heard that the crossbow was a weapon useable by cripples, the elderly, even women, kicked them out. Getting Varden archers, most of the longbowmen, together for long enough to train them was also problematic; most scorned it as a peasant's weapon, or were too busy with other duties. Still, gradually, it was beginning to take shape. All that was needed were more crossbows.

The opportunity for those came one fine evening when, after another interminable mile of villages, a cavalry scout came galloping down the road, little curls of dust being whipped up by his horse. He was helmetless, had lost his spear, and was riding like Cerberus was on his heels. The Varden longbowmen, at the front of their column, fanned out into a skirmish line and started stringing their weapons, but the scout simply thundered right through. He continued galloping, head down, past the first cohort, which had halted and was busily removing packs and drawing swords. A few still sang the marching song; one of the new Varden songs, with poor accent but great vigour:

_The wandering Urgal, the wandering Urgal,_

_Was now at a total loss._

_So he roared so loud that he summoned a crowd,_

_And ended on our shield boss…_

His only words to Flaccus before he passed out were: "Reds. Thousands of 'em." Then he fell from his horse, and collapsed. ((At this point, Tertius seems to have started taking direct dictation.))

Flaccus looked up to find Rufus standing. "The First Cohort has been halted, Publius Cassius," he said.

"Well done, Primus Pilus Rufus. To your century, I think." Flaccus then very pointedly turned back to the scout.

Rufus sighed, turned and left. Things had not been going well for him. He had turned up with a wineskin as a sort of peace offering, one of his last Tuscan wines, the best-but the Optio told him they needed one per man at least, which was more than he could ever afford. So he had sighed, and done his utmost to soldier on. And, he feared, failed.

The scout, it transpired, would not recover. On Flaccus' orders, Tenor Skeate entered his mind, so as to find his killer. It was found that a large Imperial force was close by, on a ridge with the ominous name of Drakenfarl. The scout's memories, although warped by his terror-of the army, or the probing, it was never discovered- nevertheless seemed to indicate a force of around eight thousand men wearing, according to Swiner, the livery of the Aroughs Civic Militia: red tunics, with an anchor surrounded by a twisting fire.

Another day of marching followed, in the highest state of alertness. Then, at dawn, battle was given.

The armies were deployed like this: at the top of the Drakenfarl Ridge, surmounted by a great windmill, was the main body of Imperial infantry. Seven thousand strong, and armed with both pike and crossbow, they were mostly Aroughs fishermen and tradesmen, called up to defend their city against invasion, and officered by aristocrats, the sons of wealthy merchants, and a handful of instructors from the Teirm Naval College, who were present to train their fleet. Amongst them were a handful of sailors, taken from the Imperial Navy, and the only professional footmen present: large, burly men, strengthened from years of manning an oar, and used to brutal boarding actions and seafront tavern brawls in equal measure. Above them was a veritable forest of banners, marked with the street where each regiment of militia had been called up ("Chandlerstreet Foot" "Vrael's End Pike".) And, striding through the ranks, were magic users in dark robes. They were, according to Skeate with a shudder, agents of an organization known as "The Black Hand": the Imperial secret service.

The Romans were deployed at the bottom of the slope, with all nine cohorts formed into a battle line. To their front, they had placed their archers, spread extremely thinly, as well as their entire complement of artillery: light, carriage mounted ballistae, maneuverable and deadly. To the rear of their position was a copse of extremely densely leafed Oak trees which, as it was summer, were fully grown. Flaccus, his staff officers, the cavalry, medical tents, and Tenor Skeate, had stationed themselves here. Not only was it an easy horse's gallop from any part of the line, but it was also well hidden from the ridge. Imperial Officers, via a lens known as a "telescope", would otherwise be able to spy on them, and launch magical attacks at their position. This, of course, would not be optimal for a victory, especially as Flaccus wore, as ever, his red cloak and kept his head bared, marking him out as a Roman legate.

At dawn, the Imperial forces sent a herald, demanding, in the name of Alarice of Aroughs, and His Majesty King Galbatorix of the Empire, that the Varden troops "Leave this land forever", or they will, regrettably, be expelled at pike's point by General Caastenburgh's army. The Roman herald, the Tribune Gaius Tullius Verres, replied in a typically bull headed manner that, in the name of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Trajan, Best and Greatest, and of Nasuada, leader of the Varden, that His Majesty's Forces at once stand aside, or they will be expelled, regrettably, at pilum's point by the Legion of Legate Publius Cassius Flaccus, Senator. The heralds bowed from their horses, shook hands, and returned to their armies. Neither withdrew; so, two hours after dawn, the Empire attacked.

What drove them to leave the ridge, such a formidable defensive position, can only be guessed at. The most likely reason, however, is that, as they so greatly outnumbered the Legion below (which, with one cohort removed, numbered just over three thousand, two hundred and fourty men, was outnumbered by two to one), and noticed that they lacked many magic users, they considered themselves, despite an absence of training, more than capable of handling it. So, on a word of command, the Imperial infantry advanced.

They did so in the Greek style rather than the Macedonian. No cavalry to protect their flanks, with a line of crossbowmen leading the way; just a human battering ram, being hurled at the Roman lines. Banners were waved, drums beaten, and, spurred on by dark robed magic users, they sang. Songs of glory and battle, of humanity standing together against the Elven threat, of fighting for City and Citizens against invasion; much like the ancient Greek cities, in a way.

But their commander was no Leonidas, and it immediately began to show. The militia, as they struggled down the hill, were already beginning to break ranks; many tripped and stumbled and, as they righted themselves, entire files ebbed and flowed around them, with sections of the line advancing too far, and others halting. The pike block, even without the Romans, was shaking itself out of position.

The crossbowmen, though, didn't even look back. Each one of them carried a weapon that could punch through a legionary's shield, helmet and armour with ease. They pressed on, cheering and gamboling down the hill, some even laughing and betting on how many of these strange soldiers they could shoot. They were mostly young men, too poor to afford a pike, or even the barest "Gambeson", but desperately eager to prove themselves; apparently, they would be rewarded a crown for every bolt they put through a helmet, and double if an officer was killed. And the Roman centurions, clad in their distinctive greaves and traverse crests, were very visible. So they cheered, and prepared for a last dash into range. What could be easier?

Then the Roman artillery shot its first volley.

The volley of bolts, shot at the maximum range of five hundred yards, slashed through the crossbowmen's tight ranks, scything off limbs and ripping through bodies with horrifying force. Three men died in obscene union, joined by a bolt; nearby, a Black Hand agent screamed at them to keep going. Already, some turned to run; but Galbatorix knew what to do with such creatures. Magic users roared words and snapped fingers. Those who ran burst into flame, their screams rising above the moaning of the dying. "On! Onwards, soldiers, in the name of your King! Panic mongers will be executed!" The Black Hand stood in a tight know, just behind the crossbow line. Their intent was clear. "Forward!"

The Roman artillery shot its first volley.

The crossbowmen were scattering, some fleeing, many cowering on the ground or trying to crawl forward, and a few running to try and get their weapons in range. The bolts caused fewer casualties, but the crossbowmen were still trapped in a welter of their own blood, struggling to get an ordered advance together as officers tugged at plumed hats and helmets and soldiers fell around them. One magic user, more sympathetic than most, tried to erect wards; but they had rarely faced missile fire of this weight and power before. Varden guerillas rarely brought artillery, after all.

The Roman artillery shot its third volley.

"Archers! Advance one hundred paces!" Swiner barked, and the longbowmen advanced. Their weapons lacked the range of crossbows, but the men behind them were properly drilled, had trained since childhood, and knew how to fight. They attacked in a loose order, crouching low, their sergeants signaling them forward with gestures and bugles. A few crossbows thumped in response, and a man toppled over backwards, choking as a bolt struck him in the throat; but then the crossbowmen were frantically ratcheting their weapons, fumbling for bolts, and the longbowmen were in range. "As Vrael said at Arcourt; men, let the black rain fall!" Swiner barked, and they obeyed, giving the two fingered salute and raising their bows. They shot volley after volley of arrows, calmly reaching into arrow bags, dragging out their barbed, white fletched arrows, nocking them, and pulling the string back to the cheek before letting fly.

"Is it always this easy?" a young archer asked, amazed.

"At first," a veteran replied. "Then they get close and it's shit hard."

The Roman artillery shot its fourth volley.

The singing had stopped, but the pike block continued slowly, inexorably, to roll down the hill, drums beating them into something that almost resembled good order. The crossbowmen were being forced on, on, to try and bring their weapons to bear, and the wall of flesh was acting as a brutal shield against archery. They seemed to wilt as they advanced, and for every soldier who was hit, five men ran to "help" him and drag him back to the healers; but crossbows were still being put into range, and they still outnumbered the archers. And all the while, the infantry fumbled around them, drums beating. Bolts began to rain down on the archers who, even in their loose formation, began to die.

The Roman artillery shot its fifth volley. Now it swept through the front ranks of the infantry, felling dozens; but they had seen the fate of the crossbowmen, and the sailors were shouting at them to keep ranks, to advance, to keep the pike raised, so that is what they did. Swiner stood, shot another arrow into them, and was wounded as a bolt struck his cheek, tearing it off. His lieutenant seized his Captain and dragged him back, and the bugles sounded the retreat. The archers ran back to the legion, pikemen jeering all the while. "Cowards! Elf lovers!" The artillerymen towed their pieces back also, with the legion opening ranks with admirable discipline to let them pass. They immediately closed up again.

Trajan's image was raised defiantly, with the other standards joining him. "Fellatores!" someone cried, but was silenced immediately. Flaccus then took one look at the situation-the pikemen continuing to attack, the crossbowmen hurrying forward, his skirmish line defeated-and ordered the advance. His tribunes, Pulcher among them, galloped to the Centurions; and the Legion attacked.

"Testudo!" The line formed into a mass of blocks as centuries smartly raised their shields and continued to march forward. Crossbows were being shot with an ever increasing frequency, and holes were being plucked out of them alarmingly often. But if the men thought themselves comparatively safe, and a bolt was occasionally deflected, it was definitely better than nothing.

(It was here, coincidentally, that Spurius Julius Rufus was killed. He was leading his century from the front rank, his shield raised, and was shot in the chest, straight through his breastplate. He dropped his sword and shield. The last words said to him, I gather, were in response to him being catapulted into the second rank: "Get off me, you bastard!" and then, as the bolt was noticed: "Oh." The century, to its credit, continued to advance, Optio Dexter leading the way. He was, I gather, given water to ease his passing; and so ended Spurius Rufus, Praetorian Guardsman and linguist. May his shade rest easy.)

As the Legion now looked far less formidable, not as a formidable line, all polished steel and proud crests, but as little knots of men, inching forward over the bodies of their own dead archers, leaving a weeping trail of bodies, the enemy was given heart. Their officers drew their swords, their men gave a great "Hurrah!", and they charged as a great wave, pikes leveling. The Legion, unbowed, continued to advance. Pila were produced.

And, too late, the enemy discovered the ditch.

It was a difficult thing, of course. The Legion had arrived late in the previous day, and immediately the engineers had set to work, estimating distances and ranges. Over night, men had been roused from their sleep, raised their entrenching tools, and started to dig and lay stakes. A layer of turf had been used to painstakingly make the trap look real. If the enemy didn't attack, planks had been prepared, to give the Legion safe passage.

But the Aroughs Civic Milita, for all its sailors and fishermen, had no planks.

The charge, so glorious, now collapsed utterly. The pike was a weapon best used in formation, as a great block of men stabbing and thrusting as one, keeping the enemy at bay. Floundering in a ditch filled with wooden spikes, each covered with mud, as the rear ranks pushed on and the front pushed back, had whipped that advantage away.

Worse still, the Legion had formed line. "Milites! Ready your Pila!" the Centurions ordered. Without breaking step, the javelins were raised.

A few magic users had enough wits left to raise wards or cast missiles. Some were stopped by Tenor's "singing", but one struck, leaving a mound of burnt flesh in the middle of a century. But most were too busy ordering their soldiers to advance, on pain of death, and merely contributed to the shouting.

"Milites! Cast your pila!" They first volley struck home, over three thousand javelins. "Milites will ready their second pila! Milites!"

Now the pikemen began to falter. A few begged for quarter, for they had no shields.

"Cast your pila! Draw swords!" A few pikemen had doggedly worked their way through the ditch, and sailors were hacking at the stakes with axes.

"Legion!" Flaccus rode forward, distinctive in his red cloak. "Legion! Charge!" He swept his sword down. "Cheer, Milites! Cheer!" The Legion erupted forth, roaring defiance, spitting curses, clanging sword against shield boss.

And then the pikemen broke. First one man, who was broken by a spell. Then another, and dozens, and then whole regiments threw aside weapons and ran for it, magic users being carried along with them. They had, to their credit, showed magnificent courage to advance even this far; but no further. Flaccus paid them no heed. "Forward cavalry!" he ordered.

Macedonicus now faced a cavalryman's dream: a broken enemy. True, the enemy was fleeing up a ridge, across a ditch, which was hardly cavalry country. But no matter. Planks were brought forward, and the cavalry charged, the infantry following.

Here and there, little groups of men banded together, readied whatever pikes they hadn't thrown aside, and tried to hold out. Knowing that formed pikemen would decimate a cavalry charge, Macedonicus ignored them, instead sending all four of his Turmae into the screaming, disorganized mass of militiamen, herding them up the hill. Varden standing orders, unfortunately, were to take prisoners, rather than kill those who fled, which was a shame; but his troopers could probably still rob them. Militia, in his experience, carried a lot of glitter about them. "Come on, you fellows!" he laughed, smacking at them with the flat of his sword. "Be off with you! Horses of the God of War!"

He then looked up, and saw an even better target. Cavalry! Enemy cavalry!

Doubtless, they had been kept back to run down any fleeing Romans, but he was sure this was only reluctantly. Cavalry were always good sports, after all. They would, in fact, likely be happy for the company. And so, he formed up his turmas once more, and met their charge as it thundered down the hillside.

And Flaccus, watching from behind the infantry, could only watch the disaster unfold. Macedonicus charged uphill with tired horses, whereas his men were fresh. And the enemy cavalry, it seemed, were far more effective. Skeate informed him that they were called "Forsworn", after an old order of dragon riding knights. They seemed more like Cataphracts to him. Each man was armoured from head to foot in solid plates of metal, couching a massively long lance. Their helms, twisted into dragon wings and gargoyles of vile creatures, seemed to grin with the prospect. Flaccus tried to order Macedonicus back; but it was too late.

The Forsworn crashed into the Companions, and emerged from the other side, with a handful of scattered, fleeing cavalrymen before them. Macedonicus was cut down in the first impact, horse killed by a lance, and beheaded as he tried to rise. The Forsworn, seeing the mass of infantry, longbows and ballistas before them, immediately halted their attack, and began to ride up the slope.

That night, Flaccus would have decimated his cavalry, were it not for the fact that he had only fourty three left. For, although he had won the field, the Forsworn had saved the army of Aroughs. Scouts revealed that most of it had rallied, and withdrawn to the City proper.

Two days later, Mactator's cohort arrived, laden with goods (the Camp Prefect disappointed that he hadn't found the fight); and the next day, the Legion arrived at Aroughs.

We hope that your final recovery will be swift. Farewell.

((Author's note: I didn't know it would grow so long! I promise you: the next chapter will be shorter, but less worthy of your favourite fight music being used as accompaniment. The chapter after, however…))

Glossary

Best and Greatest: Optimus Maximus, titles originally bestowed on the Roman God Jupiter, but later bestowed on Emperor Trajan.

Referring to himself in third person: This is not just the author trying to be convenient, but is Flaccus trying to be like one of his heroes, Julius Caesar. Caesar referred to himself as "Caesar", rather than "I" in his writings.

Lookeus…: I'm no expert on Latin, but from what I can make out, it does seem a very different beast from what we expect it to sound like. (Although, I will of course be willfully inconsistent throughout this fic, mostly because of my poor knowledge of Latin.) So, our old friend Gaius Julius Caesar is more correctly Gaius Yooleus Kaisar. (The Germans, with Kaiser Wilhem and co, got it right there.)

Vigiles: Roman night watchmen.

Marching in step: Opinion is divided as to whether the Romans actually "marched" how we imagine it (i.e. all feet in unison, with a man shouting "left, left, left…" and suchlike.) I'm saying that they didn't, because I feel like it. Certainly there is no evidence that they had drummers.

Dromedarii: Camel riders.

The Companions: Alexander's elite Companion Cavalry, one of the finest cavalry units in the Ancient World. Flaccus, with his eye for anything remotely resembling an ancient hero, would have latched onto them immediately.

Stirrups and low saddles: At this time, Roman cavalry, like most other cavalry, didn't use stirrups. Their saddles, however, were still high enough to permit a shock charge of some sort to be conducted. Other cavalry types used different methods. Parthian Cataphracts, arguably the best cavalry in the Roman world, would chain their lances to their horses to increase their impact.

Deimos: The son of Ares, the Greek god of war. He rode into battle alongside his father, and personified the terror caused by war. Appropriate for a battle cry, then.

Parricide: The crime killing one's Father, Grandfather, or possibly Mother. It was, for the Romans, the worst possible sort of crime, with killing the Emperor possibly ranking slightly ahead. For the modern equivalent, think a Mother killing her children after keeping a Joseph Fritzlesque dungeon for a few years.

This is entirely appropriate for the Romans; the Father (or Grandfather, or even Great Grand Father, as long as they still lived) of the family was the Paterfamilias: an all powerful figure. He controlled who his sons and daughters could marry, what they inherited, and much else besides, even being legally entitled to kill them. In practice, however, an excessively brutal Paterfamilias ran the risk of losing all his friends. This doesn't sound like much, but bear in mind that Roman society was based heavily around informal friendships, with the _Patronus _(the Godfather, not the Harry Potter spell-and, for politicians at least, the mafia analogy is pretty accurate, down to hiring mobs of war veterans to beat up rivals, or even, in one memorable occasion, dump barrels of excrement on them) having a mass of informal clients. Losing all those would effectively mean exclusion from business, politics, and even the informal neighborhood watch that thrived throughout Rome to compensate for a near absence of police.

The word "Parricide" was used as an insult, even by politicians (not surprisingly, Cicero included.) To continue on the final stage of this irrelevant but hopefully interesting digression, the punishment for parricide deserves mentioning. The killer would be tied up in a leather sack with a dog, a cock, a viper and an ape (all of which represent human vices), would then be beaten in the sack, and would finally be tossed into the River Tiber.

Sibylline Books: Books of prophecy, reputedly given to King Tarquinius Superbus, the last King of Rome, by a mysterious prophetess. He only received three of them, and they were heavily guarded ever since, being consulted at times of great need. Copies of them were maintained until AD 405, over nine hundred years later, and long after Rome had adopted Christianity.

Augur: A Roman priest, whose main duty was to study the will of the gods and interpret it, often by observing birds.

Fire: This happens all the time! Whether fantasy, historical, sci fi, or even fanfic about fantasy, fiction, so it's time to get this Hollywood myth straight.(Even our esteemed Paolini, who brandishes swords on you tube and makes armour for fun falls into this occasionally. That, more than anything else, is why I allow the Varden to get away with it.) Unless the archer was intending to ignite his arrow with pitch for some reason (for burning buildings, or for night fighting, or for morale damage-NOT for igniting human bodies, as it is less accurate, and humans don't ignite like that anyway, isn't that so, Total War games series?), he would never, ever be ordered to "fire" his bow, nor would he "fire an arrow" at anyone. Why would he? "Fire!" is something we've picked up from guns, with their massive firey explosions, rather than bowstrings and suchlike. It has no place in archery.

Gastraphretes: Ancient Greek crossbow. Literally, "belly bow", as it was rested against the belly so as to be drawn with more strength.

Vespasian: Roman Emperor from AD 69-79. A former second hand mule dealer, and known for his great wit (for example, he quoted from the Iliad "Striding along and waving a lance that casts a long shadow" when noticing a tall, naked man), practicality (he was reputedly bored by his Triumph due to its slow pace), and penny pinching with Imperial finances. He raised taxes considerably, down to public toilets (not so long ago, French public latrines were still known as "Vespasiennes"), and conducted a Roman "cash for honours" scandal by letting himself get bribed into giving men high positions, or acquitting them at trials-before, when they were richer, accusing them of paying him for these high positions and acquittals, and fining them vast sums of money. This, whilst unscrupulous and probably unpopular, restored the Empire's finances after the chaos of the Year of the Four Emperors. I could go on about anecdotes concerning him, for he was quite a character (or, at least, he was according his various paid up biographers), but this glossary is getting bloated already, and the chapter even more so. PM me if you want to hear more, or look on the internet.

Cerberus: Three headed mythological dog. AKA "Fluffy" from Harry Potter, and with much the same role (guarding Hades.)

Leonidas: Spartan King at Thermopylae, aka "The Battle in that movie with Gerard Butler with those guys in (inaccurate) leather pants facing down Orcs, ninjas, and gods alone know what else."

Gambeson: A padded cloth jacket, and considerably more common amongst medieval infantry than fantasy fiction would let on. Cheap, light, and still surprisingly capable of holding off arrows at long ranges. (After all, Genghis Khan's horsemen mostly rode wearing silk, and he knew a thing or two about medieval warfare.)

Two fingered salute: Unfortunately, there is no evidence to suggest that English longbowmen ever gave enemies the two fingers before fighting. However, as this is fanfic, I can take occasional liberties.


	8. II: Stone

The ingenious reviewer, tkb17, has pointed out an error in my Latin: the use of Ave. This deserves some comment. Firstly, I'll be using tkb17 for Latin translations, if necessary (and there will be a minimum of these; after all, I've been keeping this fic wonderfully free of excess Dwarven, Ancient Language, and so on, for reasons previously mentioned.) Secondly, my source for the use of Ave ("Ancient Rome on Five Denarii a Day" by Philip Matyszak) called it "The standard Roman greeting" ("something between 'salutations' and 'ave'.) If this is incorrect, it does throw a great deal of my other various assertions about Rome into doubt, as Matyszak has also been pillaged ruthlessly throughout the entire fic, and will continue to be. Anyway, that's enough self justification.

Another thing: by the time I finish this chapter, I will have written my longest piece of creative writing, in word count terms! (This includes my NaNoWriMo entry which, perhaps not coincidentally, also made heavy use of footnotes, albeit about a fantasy world. This, more or less, is where all similarity between the memoirs of an unscrupulous steam punk nobleman, and the actions of the XXIII Adiutrix, come to an end.) Still, it's quite a milestone. I just hope I can keep this up. If there are any problems in actual writing quality rather than historical evidence, please tell me.

((Author's Note: Wherever possible, I have tried to take battle tactics from historical sources. This chapter sees an innovative use of the Testudo, which appears to have been fairly common practice. Similarly, I took some of Drakenfarl from the Battle of Flodden Fields-Scottish pikes becoming disordered under missile fire as they slogged down a steep hill. And the slogan shouting bit is inspired from Orwell's "Homage to Catalonia", with Nationalist and Republican troops trying to persuade each other to desert.))

* * *

"_There are three kinds of scenes, one called the tragic, second the comic, third the satiric. Their decorations are different and unlike each other in scheme. Tragic scenes are delineated with columns, pediments, statues and other objects suited to kinds; comic scenes exhibit private dwellings, with balconies and views representing rows of windows, after the manner of ordinary dwellings; satiric scenes are decorated with trees, caverns, mountains and other rustic objects delineated in landscape style." Vitruvius, De Architectura, on the theatres_

Were Vrael to rise from his grave, take up his sword once more, and ride to the heavens on his steed, it is quite likely that he would ride to the South West, for, by all accounts, he was a sea captain's son in his earlier years. And, were he to do so, he would notice a number of changes; particularly, around the city of Aroughs.

One century ago, Aroughs had been little more than a glorified fishing village, the little rowing boats flitting hither and thither inside its strange, claw like bay, trying to scrabble for a living amongst sharp rocks and pitiless winds, a little underground river providing their only water supply. Now, however, times had changed. The King, seeing the need for a port large enough to serve as a naval base should war be waged against Surda, had invested massively in its construction; and, as Surda gradually became the only place from which one could purchase Dwarven or Elven work in any quantity, no matter how small, the black market boomed. The port grew rapidly, and ships improved. Nowadays the shoals of fish in the bay itself were spent, the last gone six months back, but larger vessels were being deployed for further seas. And, as the money flowed in, the city grew ever grander; the river became a massive plumbing network; and the mayor's cottage was replaced with the magnificent Argard Keep, towering above for yard after becolumned and gargoyled yard. (In the foundations, although Vrael may not have noticed from his steed, were the city prisons. Such was the lot of the Imperial citizen.)

Were the rider lord to bank his steed delicately over the city, he would perhaps take note of Aroughs itself. The city was moderately large, sprawling out of a low bay and surrounded by a high stone wall; perhaps not the greatest in the Empire, but certainly a formidable obstacle for any attacker. The bay itself was known as "Drake's Harbor", with good reason; staring down from the dragon, Vrael would notice how similar it appeared to some claw, with two great, limestone cliffs stretching out into the sea, with only a small gap in between, providing the bay with a natural harbor, easy to defend, and well sheltered against wave and storm. Until recent years, this had been enough on its own to deter all but the most determined attacker; however, this was a new, darker age. Rumors of piracy devastating entire trading companies had spread like wildfire, causing Lady Alarice to take further precautions. Each of the bay's two claws was now tipped with a fortress; not an ancient castle, but a low, modern bastion, difficult to hit with artillery, and bristling with artillery and garrisoned with Imperial Marines, with a great light house beacon on top, which glared defiantly into the darkness of fog and night. They both squatted like guard dogs, guard dogs a short walk from the city proper, and quite capable of barking for their masters with carrier pidgeon, beacon signal and magic alike; and, to the locals, were known as "Kialandi" and "Formora", the two fisherman-Forsworn. To call them anything else, of course, was of great interest to the Black Hand.

The final change that Vrael may have deigned to appreciate was that, encamped both within and without Aroughs, were large armies; and, if he swept low enough over the attackers, spreading his mind as he did so, he may have appreciated that the attackers were far from agreement.

"So," Gydrynne had began, as the camp chairs and desks had been set up, and that most precious of gifts- a small telescope, one of the very few in the Varden's possession- had been laid reverently on the writing desk. "How are we to storm Aroughs?"

"Very simply," Flaccus had replied, remaining standing and pacing. "We do not." At this point, he had whipped his head round to face the Varden and Surdan commanders, and the meeting had rapidly deteriorated.

"We do… nothing?" Sir Leon asked, incredulously. When he had arrived at the meeting, in a cloud of dust and horse dung, he had been tired but exhilarated, reveling in the long, fast ride from cavalry patrol to headquarters. This exhilaration had evaporated immediately.

"Certainly not, Captain. There shall be plenty of work, if you would let me explain, but-"

Lieutenant Cottwood Claye, tugging at his moustache, opined that an escalade, by night, could carry the day quite easily. "It's defended by militia, and we have troops skilled in night attacks. I led the storming of Ragland's Keep in person, and from the front. It can be done."

"How large, Lieutenant Claye, was that Keep? How many defenders? The Varden, we must recall, has never engaged in a large scale war against the Empire, in all its long and illustrious history-at least, it has not done so in my understanding. It has fought most gallantly, but only now, with the arrival of Shadeslayer, has it fought in the open! It has bit, clawed, nibbled at edges, raided and harried at supplies, at leaders, and at tiny, exposed forts. It has not formed massed armies to take large cities!" Flaccus' gaze alternately bored into Gydrynne, Sir Leon, Claye, Goge, and all their senior officers; but they gave as good as they got in return.

"I wouldn't call Farthen Dur small scale…" Gydrynne began, eyes blazing. Her husband, father, children-small scale!

"You were nearly annihilated, I believe," Flaccus replied coldly. "Even with your rider. The Roman Kingdom, Empire, and Republic, has by contrast fought wars for its very survival, and of conquest, against all manner of enemies, for over eight hundred and fifty years, learning for every live lost…"

"But the Varden's predecessors have their own long, bloodthirsty history, from which we can draw!" Goge whipped a scroll out of his sleeve. "The Taking of Kuasta, conducted by the Dragon Lord Terion at sword's point, the very day his armies arrived; Palancar's Fall, when the Elves under Prince Islanzadi I crushed his armies, sheltered behind walls and mountains alike; Herenwold…"

"We have, Choirmaster, no dragon. We have, Choirmaster, no Elves. We have a small army, of brave men, but men who die easily when faced with stone walls, crossbows, and then, should they break through that, the streets themselves. Have you, gentlemen, lady, ever fought through a city street? Buildings burning, the enemy reforming at barricade after barricade, arrows pouring into the ranks like rain, and the citizens joining in with roof tiles, stones, and Gods know what else. The Varden cannot afford to throw lives away like this!"

And on, and on it went. The Varden, of course, would die for their cause; Sir Leon and Gydrynne both swore on it. That, of course, Flaccus replied, seemed immensely likely, if they were to pretend that they had troops who were the equal of a dozen Imperial soldiers, or flying artillery pieces capable of razing entire cities, and decided to throw them at an enemy resolved to defend their homes to the bitter end, and which occupied defenses the equal to anything he had ever witnesses. Why- was he a coward, knowing that he only had a handful of his precious Romans to throw away? After all, the Varden foot had slogged through marshes, had glimpsed terrifying werelights in the muck that required their every last scrap of fortitude-were they not willing to sacrifice themselves? Besides, the Empire's armies would mobilize slowly-surely a smash and grab attack would be for their benefit? But, damn your eyes, the Empire would in that case stage its counter attack against a mound of twitching corpses piled outside those damned towers! But-

A cough.

The commanders, with all their staff, their uniforms and armour polished, medals gleaming in the sun, backs straight, looked up like guilty children.

"We have finished surveying the terrain, sir, ma'm." Mactator, the Choirmaster's "Bass" Fielding, and a platoon of Varden soldiers, had been hard at work even whilst the army dozed and bickered in the afternoon sun, riding hard around the city, daringly close to its walls, and taking in every inch of ground.

"Excellent." Sir Leon recovered first. "Brilliant! Report, then." He folded his arms. "Quickly!"

"Of course, sir. Quickly, sir. Right. Table, sir?"

"You have a map?" Flaccus gripped his cane. Mactator knew his business.

"Of course, sir." The writing desk, of course, was completely clear, as nothing had been achieved. Gydrynne took the telescope, and the map was spread pointedly. Necks craned forward; very little that they didn't know already, for the Headquarters was set up to offer a view of the city. Notable, however, were the lines that had been already added.

"These lines," Flaccus said, tracing them with his cane. "Explain, please."

"Bicircumvallations."

Blank looks. Something stirred in Flaccus' memory.

"Two good wooden walls, sir. One, the Circumvallation, faces inwards. The other, the Contravallation, faces outwards. No supplies get in, and the Aroughs militia cannot fight their way out against our wall, numbers and training; the Circumvallation constantly remains out of artillery range-about five hundred yards-of their walls. It is also to be garrisoned with our own artillery. Counter Battery work, sir. And those towers, on the bay-we capture them, fill them with artillery. Then we cut Aroughs off."

"Starve them out?" someone asked.

"Could be, sir." Mactator took a breath.

"We are, you realize, supposed to be liberating these people," Gydrynne said. "Not starving the innocent."

"Of course, Ma'm. But it strikes me that it could also be quite useful for a more… direct approach."

"Explain." Sir Leon folded his arms. "Please, explain!"

"Of course. Sir." That pause. "Captain-General Gydrynne, Ma'm, does the Varden contingent have any artillery?"

"Artillery?" she thought for a moment. "Claye?"

Cottwood Claye shook his head. "Surda, however, could make more. But in any case, your Legion seems well equipped in that regard."

"With respect, sir, we are only using light ballistae. Can do nothing against stone walls with those. This leaves us with few options of taking Aroughs by storm, at the present time, Sir. We can't tunnel under them, because their magic users would find our miners and collapse the works."

"We could hide them," Goge protested.

"I trust your judgement in this, Sir," said Mactator, "but am I right in thinking that we engaged at least eight of them at the Battle of Drakenfarl? I am? Possibly a dozen? Thank you kindly, sir. In any case, we only found three of their dead, which makes it likely that they still outnumber us. And if they outnumber our magic users by at least two, it makes it more likely that our tunneling party is found, and forced to retreat. This would inflict heavy losses, and would also take a great deal of time. We could potentially try to climb over those walls with ladders, but that would inflict even heavier casualties, and they have a deep, staked ditch in front of those walls, making climbing them difficult. We can't batter through the gate, either, for the same reason. So, for the time being, we have to wait for heavy artillery from Surda, which takes weeks to bring up. In the meantime, Sir, Ma'm, I would suggest building a wall anyway. Keeps the Reds out, and our lads in, if you get my drift."

"Yes," Flaccus said, "well done, Mactator." It would help with all their plans at once for the time being. But the Legion had still lost 144 men, cavalry included, at Drakenfarl. A costly assault would…

And more to the point, thought Marcus Thorius Mactator, keep high command united. Senior officers-the same everywhere!

Fielding made one final point: that a magic user, of some sort, had been detected in the Argard. "Nothing too strange though. Seemed to be a messenger-most cities have them, and I could feel his mind groping around the place; he got out pretty sharpish when I turned up! Doubtless telling Iron Bones that we're trespassing. I wouldn't want to be the messenger that tells him over his goblet, or his latrine, or whichever he drinks from!"

"Remarkable," said Flaccus. "Quite remarkable. A message over… miles, instantly!" He had once heard of Tiberius doing something like this, but nothing on this scale. "Truly remarkable. Well, to business! Mactator, get the Legion to work. Gydrynne? I trust that your soldiers are willing to assist."

"Ahh…" she looked at Claye. "We have spades, do we not?"

"Some, Captain General. About five hundred."

"Some!" Flaccus, once again, sighed inwardly, not only at the lack of tools, but at the offhand way the man thought of them.. "What separates a soldier from a warrior apart from his entrenching tool? Sir Leon! Get your cavalry on patrol, give them cash, and start buying spades from anyone who has any to sell. I know that harvest is coming, so prices will be higher, but we need them! Keep a look out for a relief force, also. We have, it seems, a wall to build. To work!"

So they did. The Circumvallation was to surround the entire city, even cutting off the coastal defenses; and a well was to be dug, for the purpose of supplying water. Many soldiers believed this to be a waste of time; but they were mostly the ones who had to do the digging. The troops were worked hard on ditch, stakes and ramparts, constantly digging and hammering whilst Centurions stalked the lines, measuring stick in one hand and cane in the other. Even during the night, men worked in shifts, and hammering could be constantly heard; the wall was to be partly hollow, with a chambler left inside for storage. ("The safest place for food from weather, Sir, is in the heart of your own fortress," as Mactator said.) The Legionaries, it was noted by many, tended to get lighter punishments for digging a ditch too shallow than the Varden infantrymen; whereas Marius' Mule got a light tap on the behind, a Shadeslayer would often be punted into the trench and asked to dig his way out. The centurions, it seemed, were getting their own back for the long nights of lounging the Varden had spent, watching the palisades be painstakingly erected, and the Legionary sweat in the afternoon sun. The Varden soldiers, however, fared remarkably well. Whilst it was certainly true that many had been career soldiers in Ajihad's little wars, and thus rarely dug anything deeper than a latrine ditch, more than a few were Surdan recruits, or Imperial refugees, often farm boys with long experience of digging. All soldiers who were not engaged in digging were on sentry duty, or riding out with Sir Leon's patrols. Extra wood had to be found for the palisades, food constantly purchased, and always the fear that someone, somewhere, had the wit to gather troops and fight! If forced to abandon their siege works and give battle, the allied army would be set back for weeks. Months, even.

At first, the defenders watched these developments with surprise, then relief- every soldier digging was one less brandishing his sword at a former fisherman-and finally alarm. It was on the fourth day, as the wall grew malevolently towards Kialandi that they struck.

The attack was perfectly planned, Flaccus would give them that. It was conducted at dusk, a time when sentries start to drowse and dream of camp fires and supper, and workers have just finished wilting under the lash of the sun, and focused on the most vulnerable part of the entrenchments: the section nearest to Kialandi. The men were just putting the finishing touches to their ditch, stakes ready to plant (after all, Mactator thought, it was more cheering for a man to have achieved something major, than to wake up and find a half done wall), and Flaccus, a mile away at their headquarters, was sipping on a cup of wine, when Kialandi's gates began to creak open.

Mactator, who had almost presciently positioned himself at this section to supervise construction, reacted with laudable professionalism. He shook the section's guard captain (a Varden officer called Krevize) into wakefulness, and together they roused his men: ninety four footmen, equipped with bow, blade and shield. The working party, a fourty strong detachment of legionaries, was told to arm itself; their weapons and armour were left in a stack a quarter mile away, so ten men were picked to fetch them, and another to fetch reinforcements. For the time being, they seized whatever came to hand: daggers, spades, entrenching tools, sticks, stones. "And protect the spades, Captain!" Mactator said, tugging at his metal arm and drawing his gladius. "We need those!"

Krevize gulped, drew his longsword, taking it in both hands, and nodded. "This wasn't…" he began, adam's apple heaving as he stared at the gates, just a few hundred yards away. He could see red tunics, the glint of steel, black robes.

"Wasn't what?" Mactator asked. A gust of wind tugged at his helmet plume, his moustache and beard.

"How I expected my first battle!" Krevize said. He was a young man, close to tears, and recently commissioned; after the losses at Farthen Dur, the Varden needed every man it could get. His father, a wool merchant, had purchased his sword new for sixty crowns, and given his blessing. The chainmail, which he had thought such a burden in the hot sun, now felt monstrously heavy. And he had ninety young lives under his command! For every death they suffered…

"How was that then?"

Krevize down at Mactator, surprised he was so short. Almost a dwarf! But he seemed commanding, strong, powerful to him, so he sheepishly confessed. "A green field, in a bright summer's day, leading the lads forward against the thin red line. A battle, sword to sword, with a standard or two captured by a brave rush, myself leading it-possibly a wound, nothing too big, but it would impress girls I suppose. Genevieve-we're betrothed, you know- would approve. And… well… well, not defending a little hole in the ground with sticks, stones and an outnumbering enemy!"

"Well," Mactator said, "you got the summer alright."

"True enough." Krevize, to his surprise, grinned weakly, and brandished his sixty crown sword. He opened his mouth to say something, but was drowned out by the Imperial warcry.

A rush of them, red tunicked soldiers, armoured in heavy mail, and bristling with weapons and torches. "Kialani!" they cried. "Kialandi and Aroughs!"

The response was almost deafening. "Irrumatores! Cunni!" Their Centurion, panting over in full armour, drew his sword and added "Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo, imperiosus!" at the top of his voice, prompting cheers. The Varden added their cries. "Lapdogs! Lackeys! Gayboys…"

Flaccus, seeing the red tide running at the tiny group of purple and red-brown, felt the same helplessness as when faced with the Forsworn. But only for a moment. He could save them! He sprinted out of the command tent, calling for Bucephalus, for a Centurion, for any troops! "Milities! With me!" Some officers immediately lept to their feet and began roaring orders, ordering diggers to their weapons, into ranks, but many just stared for a moment. "We're under attack, damn you! To arms!" Flaccus grabbed his cane, raised it, glared at a Varden officer who was inquiring as to what was happening, and prepared to swing-but an arm seized him.

Gydrynne's, with surprising strength. "Report, Captain Osgood!" she said, back straight, and in a long mail coat, an absurdly long sword across her back.

"Apologies, ma'm. What's happening?"

Gydrynne, in military tone, ordered his company of sentries to accompany Flaccus; she would keep command here. As she spoke, Flaccus sat in his saddle-so little time! He turned once more to the huddle of figures, with the red tide pouring down the hill, straight at them.

The huddle stood in a shield wall, the Legionaries gathered behind. "Sarn't Tufnell! Black Rain" Krezize ordered.

"Archers! Give fire!" Twenty longbows twanged at once, arrows buzzing, the footmen crouching low. A few red tunics seemed to fall, but the rest ran through it. Their dark cloaked magic user, at their head, raised his hand, and the next volley was simply knocked aside. Warding. Damn.

Krevize took one last look at the enemy, outnumbering, outmagicing and out arming his small force, and made the decision. "Company! Pull back! Smartly now!" Trying to hide how much his hand shook, he placed himself at the head of his men, and only walked slowly, face constantly towards the foe. Behind him, he could hear a few curses amongst the legionaries-they would have to dig the whole lot again!

Who, as they reached the trench, at first paid him little heed. They had what they came for, and they immediately began to pull the trench down, burn stakes, grab whatever spades they could find. Smash and grab. Simple. Come in, nick stuff, cause a panic, and get the hell out. And it would have stayed that way too, had not a Marine, in leaping into the trench, accidentally tripped and triggered his crossbow. The bolt hissed through the air, thumped through a shield, and killed a man.

And, as one, the Varden attacked. A howling, lung pounding, boot crashing charge, with Krevize blowing at his whistle, and Mactator brandishing his gladius. The Imperial officer looked up, startled, and started screaming orders. "Form lines! Form ranks and fight!" He drew his cutlass. "Kialandi and King!"

Flaccus couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Stop!" he cried. "Halt, I order you!" But the little brawl at Kialandi was over half a mile away yet, and even if he was closer, he doubted he could have stopped a Varden soldier attacking an Imperial. He looked around him. He had, at his side, just over two hundred assorted legionaries, Varden footmen and dismounted cavalrymen (for trenches were no place for horses)-all that could be spared from sentry duty and patrols, as an attack was feared all along the line. It would serve. "Very well. Gentlemen. Any officers?" He couldn't see a Centurion, and was still unfamiliar with Varden ranks.

A hand went up. Gydrynne's. He sighed. "Ma'm, you-"

"I am the ranking Varden officer," she said firmly.

"Yes, but-"

"But?" she drew her sword, almost staggering under its weight, but keeping it raised. "I can fight, Legate. We train for this."

But she had never done so in anger, Flaccus thought, but there was so little time! "Take them forward, Captain-General." He reluctantly raised his sword in salute. "I wish the day to you." He scoured the Romans, and found a Tesserarius. "Magnus! For the present, you answer to Captain-General Gydrynne's orders, and my own. Once the reds are dealt with, you shall be returned to the loving company of your Century."

"Damn right," said another voice.

"Gnaeus Aurelius?"

"Indeed!" Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher sat aside Xanthus. "Good luck. Anything for me to do?"

"Some paperwork, surely?"

"Well, no, Publius Cassius! Ter-I mean, I have completed the whole lot!"

"In that case, Gnaeus Aurelius, I suggest that you stand by that horse over there and practice swordsmanship. Alright? That is an order. Another is for you not to get involved in this. Attend to your labour, young man." And, permitting no objection, Flaccus walked his horse towards the fighting, troops marching at his side.

He could see a wild melee around that ditch. Men wrestling over a single spade, tugging at it like it was an Aquila. A footman laying about himself with a poleaxe, burying it right through a steel helmet. He tugged, and tugged again, and then scrabbled madly for his dagger as a Cutlass lunged forward, and then they were blocked from view as Mactator crashed backwards, gladius and arm clashing with the sword of a Marine. Snarling, he tore the man's throat out with his arm, kicked the corpse out of the way, and went for another Marine.

They were getting close now. Flaccus could see a little, overladen group of men staggering along, burdened with armour, shields, swords. He could make out a few corpses, one tucking a sword under his arm, a crossbow bolt buried in deep. A couple of dogs were already gnawing at them, and no one was permitted to break ranks and chase them off as they marched past. "Double time!"

One of the "corpses" moaned, reached out. "Medicus! Medicus!" But there were none on hand, so none came.

He had a sudden impression of red tunics, and cutlasses rising and falling, and purple giving ground. A Varden officer flailed at the enemy with his sword, Mactator at his side, yelling their heads off and lashing out. A Legionry swung wildly with his dolabra, missed, and died with a spear in the belly. The point beats the edge, Flaccus thought, and then almost cried out as Mactator fell to the ground, a dark figure over him, a dagger in its hand.

So close! "Charge!" He put his spatha to the lunge, and threw Bucephalus right at them. But the dagger fell, and Mactator did not rise. The magic user took one look at the Legate, and ran for it. And, as quickly as they had came, the Marines withdrew.

They had fought perfectly, disrupting fortifications, killing a senior Roman officer, putting over twenty men to the sword, and now retreating in excellent order, ready to repel any attack with crossbow and shield wall. They even had captives, two screaming soldiers dragged off into the dark. They were never seen again.

From then on, security was tightened. The "Quartet" constantly patrolled the lines, along with the remnants of the Companions, ready to gallop to the rescue of a beleaguered sector. But the Empire had had its glory, and the King would be pleased; that night, another mind was detected, groping from Argard. Gloating. Damn!

"And," Pulcher thought to himself bitterly, "I had their Optio down for Calonice! I suppose that I need to do some recasting."

Flaccus, Tertius noticed, was often given to worry over the next phase of the siege-were the siege works completed? Were they flawed? There was no Mactator to tell him, to trust in! Often, when faced with a problem of supplies, or walls, or broken artillery, he would take a breath-"Fetch Mactator, my man"-and realize that there was no Mactator to call. But, it seemed, much of his worry was wasted. Over the next week, the Circumvallation, all four miles of it, was completed without further incident. The next week, a Contravallation was begun; wood was still in plentiful supply and, as Flaccus pointed out, they may as well set to work on it.

"After all," he explained innocently to Gydrynne, "we have ordered these new… Trebuchettes to be brought up, and they will take weeks to reach us. Perhaps a month!"

"Trebuchays," Claye said wearily. "And doesn't this waiting mean we're back to starving them out?"

"Not in the least, Captain," Flaccus lied. "We are simply being cautious. After all, we do not want any rear attacks, especially when in the heart of enemy territory." This was, in part, justified; it was harvest time, and the locals were getting tired of having cavalry patrols constantly hurtling around the countryside, passing through their villages, and leaving with a few extra chickens. Now, at least, they were to purchase food with good Varden coin, for it was a good harvest this year, and the army needed it; but, even so, soldiers were soldiers. And none of them wanted angry peasants attacking them in the night.

"Right. But we could be doing something proactive!"

"Such as, Lieutenant?" Flaccus asked.

"Well… we could take those forts. Kialandi and wossname… Formora. We're just sitting here, but we could take 'em easily! We really want any more damned raids."

"It is possible," Flaccus said after feigning a moment of thought that it was not his idea. "Eminently possible." So plans were drawn up, and, two days later, the attacks launched.

Each fort was, more or less, identical from the landward side. A stone wall, low but well built, filled with crossbows and artillery, with a spike filled ditch surrounded by numerous mounds and banks to block artillery shot. A formidable obstacle. But far from an insurmountable one, especially as the attackers didn't intend to batter the walls down. So confident were Flaccus, Gydrynne and Goge of their fall, indeed, that they decided on a test: one fort would be attacked by Romans, the other by the Varden, so as they could learn from each other's methods.

So it was that, at dawn, the Second Cohort formed up to take Kialandi, and Lord Vrael's Own Foot, two miles away on the other side of the Drake's Harbour, prepared for Formora. And, at a trumpet's sound and magical signal, they attacked.

The Romans struck hard and fast, immediately forming into Testudo and advancing at the double; with a thousand yards to cover, they had to move quickly. In support, they had four ballistae, which were moved up to directly atop the tallest mound, unlimbered, and shot volley after volley of bolts at Kialandi's wall, not to knock it down, but to keep the defenders' heads down. They were just over four hundred yards from the wall when the alarm bell finally started to ring, and Marines were rushing to their posts. A volley of crossbows thumped out, and another; Roman corpses began to litter the ground behind the Testudo, but this time Medicus Cato was ready for them, with stretcher bearers immediately on hand, and Centurion Curio, the commander of the attack, was willing to take a few casualties. When the Romans reached the ditch, bales of hay were rolled in, and planks hastily placed on top, the advance hardly slowing. The fort's Castellan though, was perplexed-these foreigners had no ladders, no artillery! He laughed at them, strode up and down the line, encouraged his men, offered wine to any man who could shoot a traverse crest-and stared.

The first rank of Romans to reach the wall simply crouched down, and raised their shields, the rank behind them doing the same, and the third clambered onto the front rank, shields still raised above their heads. It took six ranks of men, but a great ramp of shields was formed, and a full century was clambering up it, swords drawn. "Volley!" roared Centurion Curio, brandishing his cane, and a hail of pila scythed into the defenders. "Nice work, lads, nice work! Second javelin!" Curio had already cast both missiles, and in his rage he snatched another from a nearby legionary. "Get me another!" he shouted, unaware that his entire century was imitating him under their breaths.

The first man to leap onto the wall was one Optio Marcus Julius Celer. He skewered a crossbowman, blocked a cutlass on his shield, and was killed as the garrison's magic user, in a state of shock undress, snapped his neck with a spell. The second was Immunis Nasca, who threw his pilum at the magic user, forcing him to raise wards. He turned, cut down another Marine with his gladius, and then the Romans were pouring onto the walls, and the Marines, for all their bravery, were forced back. The garrison, all three hundred of them, refused to surrender, even as they were forced back from their walls, and into their citadel, which held out until the next morning, when water began to run out. Only then was a white flag raised, and a handful of prisoners taken. These, save for the magic user, were released and ordered back to Aroughs; the magic user had his tongue cut out, and was "accidentally" beheaded. After losing their Aquila to spells, the Legion loathed them.

The Varden attack, by contrast, used magic far more extensively. Goge had assigned two Singers to assist, and both provided warding as the infantry flooded forward-not fully effective, but enough to keep some bolts back, for a brief time. The Singers also succeeded in raising earth into the ditch, filling it so as the infantry could advance, and then fused their ladders to the walls. The infantry assault itself was far more costly; but it succeeded. Again, the fort was taken.

The Romans had suffered thirty seven dead and wounded, the Varden twenty five; but together, they had the keys to Aroughs. The numerous coastal batteries inside the forts, combined with their ample supplies of pitch, would now be turned on any ship that dared sneak out in or out of harbour. In effect, Aroughs was now trapped, between walls, sea, and hunger.

After this, the siege entered its second phase, and it stubbornly refused to leave this for eight weeks. A war of fortifications, with both armies entrenched behind walls, staring each other out. For the besiegers, it was uncomfortable, and deeply dull, and only once was it brightened up by a night attack; a group of militamen was found sneaking towards the Circumvallation, torches at the ready, but they immediately ran for it as a Singer tossed a pebble into the darkness, snapped his fingers, and ignited it with a blinding flash of blue fire and a _bang _that woke the entire army, with dogs barking and men shouting madly. That was talked about for weeks, because there was very little else to do in military terms, save for standing endless watches. The latrine ditches, despite being dug a reasonable distance from the walls (and the Roman habit of wiping down with a sponge on a stick spreading rapidly), stank and simmered in the late summer's heat. Lice, of course, were always there, sparking up itching like a bush fire; men would often skewer them together with a hot needle, the unfortunate watching their socks crawl away. Rain, when it occasionally came, drenched the men as they ran to their tents, glaring enviously at the great stone towers where the sentries huddled, smoked and drank. Drunken cheers could be heard, echoing across the night. They were listened to jealously, hungrily. Even Pulcher had to spend some evenings sober, carefully hoarding his wines, especially as his drinking friends were gradually expanding to include more than a few Varden officers, who were less than punctual in bringing their own bottles.

Drinking was not the only thing that was scrutinized. As the sentries on both sides watched each other, they began to pick people out. They were given names, personalities, jobs, lovers, by their opposite numbers. Soon, that Imperial Officer, with his floppy hat and eye patch, was none other than Captain Jeremiah Stokes, dancer, queer and horse racer, with no less than six assorted boyfriends and an inexplicably large family, kept up by the purchasing of exotic plants-barley, for instance (with a certain touch of wishful thinking.) The soldier with the pike that always wobbled, and puffed at a bejeweled (at least, it seemed to glitter in the sunlight) pipe-Lucius Tiddlypuss, surely! That bloody dirt digger, beats his wife (who loves him really), drinks the house down, but great horse racer. When, occasionally, their names were revealed, the troops were extremely disappointed.

Sometimes, Varden and Imperial officers would instruct their men, with the help of magic and speaking trumpets, to shout slogans at each other, encouraging soldiers to desert. The Romans, having little stake in either side, found this most amusing.

It usually began at about mid morning, when an eager looking man, with a suspiciously clean uniform and arms pumping busily, would stride over to a section of troops and ask them to express their feelings for the enemy. At this, the soldiers would rise, with varying degrees of seriousness, take up stern postures, and make themselves heard, inevitably prompting a response.

Aside from the officially sanctioned ones- "The Shadeslayer shall liberate you, my brothers! Why must we fight?"- "Better Galbatorix than Elven Oppression! Join the struggle, soldiers!"-many of these got quite inventive. The "Quartet" would sing loudly and at length across the lines, each verse beautifully pitched, and ending in a line derogatory to the King, his habits of eating, or his potency. (The militia, goaded on by the Black Hand, responded with a loud, deep voiced song, which seemed to make the very earth shake under volume, but to which none could make out the words; after much debate, Gydrynne and Claye concluded it was called "The Pikeman's Hymn".) A number of soldiers clubbed together and sang tea drinking songs (alcohol being too rare to waste). A Varden archer, by the name of Crixus, turned it into an art form. Every morning (which was becoming increasingly cold, as summer turned to autumn), he would rise to his feet, stretch magnificently, seize his speaking trumpet, and cry "Good morning, mates! Shame you can't join us! We're sitting here eating hot buttered toast! Delicious! Hot buttered toast! D'you hear me?" He repeated the words quite distinctly and would then sit down to his proper breakfast (a chunk of cold, hard bread, with smaller chunks of cheese and dried meat, and an orange. Rations, fortunately, were holding up-the local harvest was excellent, even though none of it would reach Aroughs.)

Even Flaccus, when he occasionally heard it, would find his own mouth watering-many officers were often dining cold, to save wood, and he was no exception. He considered himself comparatively fortunate, having packed his baggage carefully, and travelled along good roads, rather than through marshes. He, at least, had his own shaving mirror and bowl, rather than scavenging a breastplate and his slaves (unlike Pulcher's slave girl) were relatively undemanding. That said, mess bills were becoming exorbitant, for relatively little value; the mess was an awning, a respectable distance from any latrine ditches (never far enough), with a sea view, a barman who never noticed any pleas for service (but always did the slaves first), and a table with a wobbly leg surrounded by at least three chairs too few.

The Centurions and sergeants, being veteran career soldiers, were of course best off. It was commonly understood that, even if the senior officers were starving and ragged, veteran enlisted soldiers were cunning enough to always turn out smartly on parade, having scavenged a good bottle of something, with a polished cane tucked under one arm and a perfect snap when they stood to attention. Of course, after this, they would then retire to a well stocked bar, with a gambling table (dice, something shared by both parties, seemed to be most popular) and a few ladies of ill repute to hand. The Varden and Roman supply trains, on the whole, tried their utmost to avoid dragging in women, but they were inevitably sucked in anyway- as washerwomen, vendors, officers' wives and, inevitably, whores. The few who had a few teeth left and skin that wasn't too wrinkled became objects of adoration- Helen of Troy couldn't have obtained as many fond glances! Gydrynne, of course, was always excepted from this; her chief response to flirtation was to suggest a few punishment laps around both walls, so as she would have time to "think it over". She would then smile sweetly, and continue on her way.

Still, from his viewpoint at that bar, nursing his unpleasantly warm, ridiculously expensive wine, he had time to consider many things. Among them was the relieved realization that, as the weeks went by, the XXIII Adiutrix had not yet disintegrated.

Part of it was the activity. The men, now that they were getting paid well, were being fed, and had found that their enemy was seemingly incapable of inflicting heavy casualties on them (apart from to cavalry, but to jealous infantryman that was a form of bonus), had calmed down somewhat. The locals mostly ate the same food as they did, farmed similar crops, and sang songs which, although in a foreign language, had largely similar subjects unless a Black Hand Agent was nearby. Yes, they had no eagle-but if all the Empire fought like this, they would be in Uru'baen by Saturnalia, with a thousand captured flags! Yes, they were doing something militarily useful, but, as uncomfortable as camp life was, hand to combat was somewhat less pleasant, if more exciting.

And, as they slowly learned Alagaesian, the Legion began to fraternize more closely with the Varden. The camp fires were being surrounded, tentatively at first, by not just companies of the Varden, but Centuries alongside them. A sort of ritual began to develop: Century and Company commanders-Centurions and Captains-would usually shake hands, exchange a bottle if they had one, and formally announce that, for this evening, they would eat together, and would treat it as an honour; if the invitation was declined, they would accept it anyway. They would then sit down, exchange foodstuffs and bottles, and generally discuss matters of importance. Flaccus was amused to learn that Optio Atticus, the worst kind of chariot bore, managed to get an entire squad of archers to support the Red team, and denounce all others as mere perversions of the beautiful game; as if in vengeance, kicking an inflated pig's bladder around (always impacting on one's favourite wine bottle, of course) was gaining a strange charm amongst the fifth cohort. Indeed, the one place they seemed to miss was Choirmaster Goge's tent. One foolish legionary made the mistake of using it as a goalpost whilst he was having his afternoon nap; the mage erupted and, with a magical turn of speed, managed to chase the man, tackle him into a latrine ditch (after leaping off a barrel of dried meat), and tell him that, in no uncertain terms, should another bloody ball strike his bloody tent, then he would give him "what for"-depending on his mood, turning him into a toad, or a frog if Angela (whoever she was) was within a league. After this, Pulcher's tent became a target, often because he was too hungover to get up and tell them to stop.

Or, if not too drunk, he was still busy with his play, which was uniting and dividing the army in equal measure. That is to say, the camp was divided by Legate Publius Cassius Flaccus and Medicus Cato (both of whom considered it to be pointless, decadent nonsense), and everyone else for whom the prospect of seeing sarge strapping on a dress and mincing about the stage was a surefire comedy hit. With Pulcher himself as Lysistrata, the eponymous heroine, he promised (via a series of posters written in what looked suspiciously like Tertius' handwriting) to utilize a variety of new comedy techniques, all the better to entertain his theatre loving audience, of almost Thespian levels of sophistication and inspiration. They would be scintillated by the absence of masks; there would be a certain level of authenticity bestowed upon them, by a lack of rehearsal; and, as for the chorus, theatrical minimalism would be maintained in terms of skill. At least, this was what Flaccus, in an attempt at wit, would always remark to whichever slave or subordinate happened to be nearby.

"And the worst thing," he said loudly, reclining and gnawing at his somewhat scrawny rabbit, "is that I shall doubtless be invited to the opening night. O Tempora! O Mores-"

"It won't be as bad as all that," Pulcher said cheerily, adding "my dear Legate, sir" in a voice that was feminine in much the same way as a wolfhound's bark being like a lapdog's whimper. "Don't be angry, I'm rehearsing! We all have to practice, you know," he said, when he saw Flaccus' face.

But, no matter how terrible the jokes, or poor the bar, or tedious the routine, no one would ever have left the camp. Not when the alternative was the city of Aroughs.

No matter how much the Varden commanders told themselves, time and again, that they weren't starving the enemy out, just waiting for heavy artillery whilst shooting boatloads of reinforcements with flaming ballista bolts, sending their crews to vile, firey deaths, it remained in their sub consciousness; Aroughs, bereft of its harvest, bereft of its fish, was beginning to starve: a true Necropolis. No one could possibly know the details, of course. None of the Varden and Roman army could have known how the Lady Aranice was down to killing her lapdogs to feed the poor, and constantly toured the battlements with her infant son, offering the latest vegetables grown in her former flower garden. No one could have seen the Black Hand Agents, striding through hospitals and dragging the sick and wounded away, knowing that they had to feed the healthy. Gydrynne and Sir Leon, when sleeping in their camp beds, would have doubtless shuddered had they seen the skeletal beggars who were beginning to flock into street corners, mobbing up to pursue rats and guard dogs, or the terrible holes where the dead had once been buried, now so much meat. The Varden had always fought wars of lightning fast assault and rapid withdrawal, chipping at the Empire's army one platoon, one isolated outpost at a time, and the Riders and Elves of old had fought little differently. But Flaccus knew, from his own experience, and from the words of veterans, and from all the histories of wars he had so painstakingly studied; he just considered warfare differently. This was a city. He had been ordered to take it. All the walls of Aroughs were not worth the life of one Legionary, especially when he had only a handful to pour through the breaches. Indeed, he had Tertius remove requests for artillery from their reports to the Varden. Tertius, although he did not know this, added it again in secret.

But, after eight weeks of sitting and starving, of drilling and watching the leaves of trees slowly redden and fall away, and Goge muttering constantly that they expected a cold front tonight ("This time, you'll feel it!") when none came, all this changed.

The first day of change all began with a trumpet sounding.

Pulcher, characteristically, was not yet asleep, despite it being in the early morning; he was busily toasting his cast good night, for _Lysistrata _was to be staged the next day. "To the heroic Zeus born maid!" they were yelling, more than a few with their drinks heavily watered down, when they heard it. Three short blasts, three long, and three short again.

"I say," said 'Myrrhine'. "That is strange." This most decorous of Athenian ladies spat on the ground. "Bugger it!"

"Well," said 'Lysistrata', the Heroic Zeus Born Maid, dressed in a vomit stained tunic. "I suppose that we really, really should go to our units. Ladies? Lots of handsome young soldiers out there, just panting for us!"

"Bloody hell," added 'Calonice', otherwise known as Crixus. "Bleedin' stupid, p-p-plays. All of 'em! Just a waste of time." Exactly why he kept turning up to rehearsals was never adequately explained.

The fine ladies of Athens and Sparta, accompanied by their ever eager Chorus, dragged themselves up and, en bloc (for standing up straight and walking alone seemed quite beyond them) shambled vaguely towards the Contravallation, and half climbed, half crawled up the steps to the wooden wall's fire step. They arrived, and remained there for a while, heads pounding.

"Morning," said a voice.

"Lieutenant Claye?" someone asked.

"Indeed." Cottwood Claye had, in his hands, the telescope; and, although the lens was scratched, he knelt down on the battlements and peered out through an arrow slit, staring into the night lit by flickering torches. "What the hell did that sentry see… ah!" He pointed.

"What? Is that a-a- something?" For some reason, Myrrhine found this extremely funny, and said so at great length.

"Captain Arkwright! What the bloody hell are you doing? I'm a Lieutenant in that I'm Captain-General Gydrynne's second in command, which means I can kick your bloody arse back to Tronjheim and order you to fucking thank me. Politely. Right, well, there's a horseman out there. One of them Roman crossbowmen spotted it, Gods know how in this night." Almost as if on queue, the wind picked up from the West. Rain tomorrow. "Damnation! Bloody weather. Well, as far as this crossbowman could make out, half the Empire's cavalry seemed to be following it."

That was why his head was pounding so hard. Hoofbeats! "But cavalry can't hurt us up here, surely," said 'Lysistrata', now putting her script away and transforming back into Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher, Tribunus Latisclavus of the XXIII Adiutrix. "Not on this great big wall."

"Can't they? Horse archers, magic users, elves, the King, need I go on?" Claye had his hand on his poleaxe. "Best be ready. Get your swords!"

"But…" Pulcher looked around, depressingly sober, and couldn't help thinking that, should it come to a fight with what sounded like a whole troop of Cataphracts, boosted by Mars knew what, he could have chosen few people less steadfast than the cast of Lysistrata after Bacchus had toyed with them a little. "But…" He looked out, staring. "Claye, you said that only half the Empire's cavalry was accompanying."

"Yes?"

Thousands of horsemen, thousands! A horde, each capable of gutting Macedonicus all over again, glinting in the torchlight, bearing lance and longbow, armour and axe, sword and shield and stirrup, all bearing down on them! Even on the wall, he shivered. "You meant all, surely."

A smile. "Close enough."

He almost missed the figure in front of them. "That sentry of ours is doubly wrong. He said their victim was a horseman. Why's he on foot then?" For the figure ahead of all those thundering hoofs was pounding down the field, vaulting over defensive works like an acrobat-but without a horse in sight!

"You're right! It's an elf then."

"So sure?"

"The King wouldn't be getting chased by his own horsemen, Shadeslayer isn't around here, and that isn't a bloody Urgal. Which narrows it down quite a lot. Soldiers, stand ready! Stand ready!" Claye readied his poleaxe. "Goge! Goge, make ready!"

"But… weren't the elves on our side?" Pulcher asked. Everything he'd read about them seemed to make out each one as a cross between Caesar, Africanus, Aristotle, Jupiter, Horace, and both Catos. Could they be enemies? And, more to the point, were one an enemy of such a divinely powerful creature, how in the name of Hercules could you fight it?

"It's best to be cautious." The runner was now approaching fast. Arrowheads glittered on the walls, as bleary eyed archers prepared their bows. "On my mark!"

But the runner didn't wait. Instead, it made a final dash, and jumped right onto the ramparts, one moment about twenty feet away, the next right beside them!

"By Hercules," said another voice. Tertius arrived, panting. "That must have been…" the Greek mathematics rattled through his head. "Over twenty feet! About twenty two, I'd say."

The figure was dressed in a dark hooded cloak, which immediately resulted in swords being drawn all round. "Peace!" it said, in a strange musical voice. "Peace!" It lowered its hood.

"Oh, sweet Gods," a Varden soldier muttered.

Pulcher congratulated himself; Pliny couldn't have found a better creature than what stood before him here! Human shaped, but covered in blue fur, with great big ears! And something about the smell… "You don't speak Latin, do you?" he asked. It shook its head. "Or Greek?"

"I am Blohdgarm," the creature stated, making a slight, almost ironic bow, as if to acknowledge the uselessness of making any more dramatic an entrance.

"Could you tell us a bit more than that? Because there's at least five hundred horsemen out there, and you seem to have dragged 'em right to us!" Claye gestured angrily, one hand firmly on his poleaxe; but the cavalry, seeing the mass of bows, walls and artillery pointed at them, decided that, for the moment, to beat a hasty retreat.

"I am an elf," said Blohdgarm, "that has changed it shape beyond that of… mortals."

"That," said a voice "is obvious." Choirmaster Goge, sleeves rolled up, was double timing over to them with a Century right behind him, shields raised and swords drawn. "You seem to have done an excellent job. The fur, dare I say it, is an interesting touch." He then bowed, and made a strange gesture. Blohdgarm, surprised, returned it, and both spoke in the strange, twittering language preferred by magic users. "We are honoured by your presence, My Lord Elf," he said. "But it would be polite, I think, to explain. These gentlemen do not like unexpected guests." He made an apologetic gesture.

"An Elf is never late, neither is he early. He arrives precisely where he is needed." Blohdgarm laughed. "I may as well ask what you're all doing out so late, it is just as obvious! So, my fine fellow," and at this he rounded on Pulcher, "what are you doing here?" His eyes, strangely catlike, took in the stained tunic, the wine on his breath.

Pulcher, usually the first to come up with a witty remark, could only mumble "Rehearsing a play."

"A play! Ah, then we are kindred spirits! I too, you see, an something of an actor. My kindred and I once performed a few for the… Blood Oath Festival you would call it, yes. _Prince Orthain_. A tragedy, but-so beautiful! Are you, yourselves, practicing some work of great cultural, social, and religious genius?"

"Ah…" Pulcher, his wit returned, found the answer. "I am the lead role, I suppose."

"Excellent. I was the Prince's cat-but who'd have thought it, looking at me? Still, it does quite enough, making its magoquy, and I will be watching it with-how do humans you say it-baited breath!" The scent that surrounded the elf, almost like incense, seemed to swell at the prospect. "But what am I doing here? Now, that _is _a very good question…"

"I have felt, when in its presence," said Flaccus later that morning with an expression of exquisite distaste, "that there is something of the Greek about it. The scent, the worship of its own body as it warps it, its detestable eating habits…" Blohdgarm had, inexplicably, refused every single offer of meat-even when fresh from the joint-, wine if served in a skin once made from animal hide, eggs, even a fur cloak when the wind started to pick up, and thunder clouds appeared in the distance! This, as it was an army, left it with nibbling on bread, and the few fruits (mostly apples-all the "citrus" fruits had been used up) they had left. "But worst of all, my man, it has brought nothing but ill."

That, Tertius admitted, was true. The Varden soldiers, at least, were more or less ecstatic about having an elf in their humble presence, cheering and saluting whenever it passed. The Romans, when they heard a "nymph" was in the camp, were on their part mildly disappointed. "We were expecting something slender, youthful, and female," a bitter standard bearer had reflected soberly, chewing his pipe to powder. "That's life though."

However, the news it had brought was little but grave. Blohdgarm had been riding southwards to meet Shadeslayer, for he was supposed to be returning home now-a single bright spot-but he and his companions had encountered an entire brigade of Imperial cavalry, riding as vanguard for a whole army which was now marching south. They had been spotted, and Blohdgarm who, as he put it, was "distracting", drew them off. He had heard that a Varden force was close by, and sought shelter there. However, he insisted that it was not of his doing that said army was now sending a considerable detachment of troops to relieve Aroughs. "They were already marching to the main crossroads, one branch to Aroughs, the other to Surda. I fear that you will soon be beset out here."

"How many?" Gydrynne has asked immediately.

"Around forty five thousand, from what we could make out. My companion Brodden suggested that, in their haste to relieve their brothers in Aroughs, they had brought little artillery."

"Quite possibly," Flaccus said. They had out here almost a third of Lady Nasuada's precious thirty thousand human troops. Capture or kill them, and the Varden would be greatly weakened.

"Our artillery?" asked Gydrynne hopefully. A quick attack could, possibly, break into Aroughs, giving them not only stone walls, but also a potential naval supply route. Possibly, they could then outlast the Empire into the winter. Possibly.

"Most likely destroyed, with that cavalry brigade riding about," Claye said grimly. "Could we retreat?"

Flaccus thought that hopelessly optimistic. "We could, potentially, but the enemy is marching right at us, through friendly, well mapped territory, and seems to be marching light. In contrast, we would have to pack up, and march through land likely filled with angry peasants, especially if their wretched Black Hands tell them to revolt, and dodge cavalry patrols, all the while encumbered by our supplies and artillery. If they meet us with those forty five thousands, of which some are most likely professionals, in the open field, especially when our cavalry arm is either scattered across the countryside or decimated, and they probably out magic us, then we would most likely be shattered. No. I suggest that we order Sir Leon back, and that magic user-Rynemann-we sent with him, form up, and defend our position here."

"What if they try to starve us out?" Pulcher asked, eager to get a word in somewhere, no matter how morbid.

"That is unlikely. They wish to relieve Aroughs, and that means giving food to their people trapped inside. If they surround our army here, then Aroughs starves out first, and the enemy has to supply itself from a part of the country which hasn't been stripped of its harvest by Surdan cavalry patrols. No. They will most likely offer battle. Here, at least, we fight, like Athens against Xerxes, behind our wooden walls, safe from Forsworn charges and pike blocks. You cannot easily use a pike against fortifications, the formation gets torn apart. Besides, all we have to do is hold out for a few days, and then call Shadeslayer in to incinerate the brutes." He had, of course, started pacing somewhere in the middle of this. "Besides, Blohdgram, you yourself suggested that they have no artillery, which means that breaching these walls will be somewhat difficult." He made a rare smile. "How difficult, gentlemen, lady, elf, can this be?"

Impossibly so! Especially, to further disrupt things, as Blohdgarm had insisted on watching Pulcher's play, as he had intended, tonight! And, as always with elves, the Varden officers had bowed to his wishes. "It could improve morale, Master," Tertius said tentatively.

"What? Seeing your commander cavorting around in a dress? What confidence could that inspire?" Flaccus was, of course, never one of life's party animals, especially when it came to course, when asked about his knowledge, he would sigh somberly, and explain in great detail how he loved the great, epic tragedies of Sophocles, and the magnificence of Oedipus Rex-how it moved him, like every great Roman lover of Culture! Of course, Tertius would allow that he knew the plot, script and characters fairly well, but every time he was bundled along to the theatre, he could rarely stay awake past the first act.

The next great distraction-apart from ordering out parties of men to expand the outer defensive ditches-was the ship.

Both Kialandi and Formora (now "Augustus" and "Vrael" respectively) immediately exploded into life as the sails were spotted, with artillery being prepared, and the pitch brought to the emplacements. It was, as the Varden signaled frantically, none other than the dreaded _Dragon's Wing_, the greatest Man of War in the entire Imperial navy. A bit battered perhaps, as their little telescope revealed, but still seaworthy and heavily armed.

But it raised a white flag, and seemed to be giving other frantic flag signals, which no one in either fort understood, being from the land army. So the Centurion, of course, called the Primus Pilus (acting Primus Pilus Dexter, Optio of the first Century of the First Cohort), who called the Legate, who deferred the matter to his secretary, who hinted to Gydrynne, who sighed and asked Goge to sort these men out once and for all.

Goge, for his part, declared that it was an honour, and sent his mind skimming across the bay. The mind in the Argard was hard at work, harder than it had in the recent weeks (doubtless because it had more to signal about); but most importantly was the ship. He gleefully tweaked and prodded at their brains for a few minutes, before returning and announcing that it was of no danger. "They are fugitives," he said. "Fleeing from the Empire. Heavily armed fugitives, I might add, about three hundred of them, with plentiful artillery, and a certain Longshanks."

"Longshanks-why, we had him over for dinner-why, it must be ten years ago!" Gydrynne grinned, faltered when she remembered the other gentlemen at the dinner, and assumed an image of forced cheerfulness. "We must have him. Fetch him, Choirmaster!"

But how? A large ship could not dock at either Augustus or Vrael; but the _Dragon's Wing_ had a few small boats, and there was a precarious flight of stairs carved into the cliff leading to Vrael, presumably for customs officers. Small boats were soon being determinedly rowed from ship to shore, bobbing through increasingly rough waters. But, under the cheers (and jeers) of the watching troops, they persevered, and soon men were picking their way up the steps to the fort, wind whipping around them.

"Good morning!" exclaimed the first man, arms wide open for Gydrynne (who was there to greet them, in full chainmail), before throwing up on his boots.

"He hasn't been well," said the second; a haggard young man, with brown hair growing into a beard that he often stroked, and an intensely weather-beaten face. "Longshanks, stick to the land. It's smoother."

"Nothing like those ruts you plough up, peasant!" Jeod doffed his hat, and started wiping at himself desperately with his handkerchief. "Ah, Gydrynne-delighted! Surprised, but delighted! Now, how's that son of yours, what's his name-"

"Gerrand. And dead." Her smile, once again, faltered. "Your sources are failing you-but it's good to see you!" She offered her hand, and he kissed it gallantly.

"Delighted! And now for some introductions. Well now… ah, Helen! This is Gydrynne, an old flame-yes, that is exaggerating somewhat, I know…"

"Well-hello," Helen said, nibbling at a strand of hair. The ladies tentatively embraced, and Helen offered her hand to Vrael's new Castellan-a man called Demoux-who kissed it.

"Ah, yes, and here is Master Stronghammer. Peasant." Longshanks smiled, turned, and vomited again. "By the lost kings…"

"Good day, ma'm," Roran said, not knowing what protocol told him to say next, especially to leaders of the Varden, and doubly to women in that capacity.

"I've heard the name somewhere," Gydrynne muttered. "Ah. Shadeslayer's cousin?"

"What?"

Of course, Roran was even more thrown as Captain Uthar brought up the rear, gave a booming seaman's halloo!-and stopped as a man, dressed in decidedly strange armour, a leather kilt, breeches and a quiff strode over, followed closely by some _thing_ in blue fur. Jeod, at least, seemed to recognize it.

"That's Blohdgarm?"

The creature nodded.

"Good morning! May the stars watch over you. And how is Vanir?"

"At least two feet taller than your last acquaintance."

"Right." Jeod shuddered, but not, at least, due to seasickness. "And you?" he asked, at the stranger.

"Publius Cassius Flaccus, Legate, Senator, and head of the Roman contingent in the Varden forces. Ave, Longshanks."

"Right." That, Jeod thought to himself, was quite a mouthful. His memoirs needed this! "Well, are there any other brass hats here? No? Well, if you would gather round, Roran has quite a story to tell-yes, do bring chairs, servant-slave? You poor man. Gydrynne, you have some explaining to do…"

It took the rest of the morning for all the explanations to be made. Flaccus, perhaps unwisely, was forced to leave Pulcher in command of the Legion, under express orders not to do anything "foolish". "Nothing I wouldn't do," he said, pretending to ignore Tertius rolling his eyes. So they sat, watched the clouds roll in across the sea, and their whole stories came out. Roran, it seemed, had taken his entire village to the Varden, so as to avoid capture by the Empire, and to rescue his beloved. Hearing from Jeod's contacts that a large Varden force was besieging Aroughs, they decided to stop there, and make their presence known.

"And do you wish to assist our efforts?" Flaccus asked.

"Any way possible," Roran said instantly.

A fine way of protecting his village, Flaccus thought to himself, but they needed every man. "Very well. You have three hundred men?"

Roran shook his head. "Three hundred men, women and children. A few dozen fighting men, perhaps, and another few dozen fighting women."

More women. And so few! Flaccus would have preferred ten more Dragon's Wings, each packed with good Legionaries, and a whole park of artillery rather than just over six more functioning ballistae. "I see. Gydrynne, this village-Carvahall-is yours. Deploy them how you please. How far can the _Dragon's Wing _travel?"

"It would need repairs," Uthar said, puffing his pipe and tugging at his beard. "And rations. We can go no further without those."

There were no materials to spare for the purposes of repairing the ship, and few rations to spare; so over three hundred people, including the sick, the elderly, and children, were also shipped to land, mostly extra mouths on the ration list, and the survivors were all thin, ill equipped, and worn out by the depredations of a long march and voyage. The artillery, as it was dismantled, shipped ashore piece by piece, and rebuilt on the Contravallation, was at least serviceable. By Hercules, what a day.

After their discussion was finished, the afternoon was spent strengthening the defenses by digging even more spiked ditches (an activity that Carvahall's folk, farmers as they were, took to with remarkable zeal.) It seemed, according to all their best magical messaging, that Sir Leon's Horse Guards were slowly retreating towards Aroughs, fighting a long, running skirmish with Imperial cavalry that thundered through village streets, over hills, and across the fringes of the marshes that left a scattering of wounded horses and men in its wake. But the Horse Guards, trained extensively with the bow as well as the sword, refused to engage the Imperial cavalry in close combat, preferring instead to dodge and shoot across the countryside, taunting their enemies before sending arrows whizzing into breastplates. Nevertheless, as their progress was tracked across the maps unrolled and resting on the ramparts, it became apparent that they were unlikely to reach Aroughs by nightfall.

That night, of course, the long awaited _Lysistrata _was finally performed on the drill yard, hastily cleared of empty wine barrels. Virtually the entire army turned out to attend, save for the redoubled watches kept on the walls. Blohdgarm, of course, seated himself in the front row, with Flaccus reluctantly to his left, Tertius less reluctantly to _his left_, Gydrynne to his right, and Roran and Longshanks sitting perplexed in the next row.

The night and threatening thunder clouds kept back by guttering torches, the announcement was eventually made that the Augustus and Shadeslayer Players had the honour-the greatest honour-to perform, before its Distinguished and Erudite Guests-_Lysistrata _by the great Playwright Aristophanes-in Latin translation. (Tertius sniggered, having written the introduction.)

A hush temporarily descended on the audience, as a female figure strode onto the stage, with slaves running on (slightly late) carrying a wooden cutout of a Greek temple behind him. This was, apparently, Lysistrata, ingeniously portrayed by Pulcher wearing a slightly too small dress borrowed from Gnaepia, his slave girl, and a wig from Gods knew where.

She turned to the audience (some of whom cheered), nodded thankfully at the slaves (who ran for their lives), and, stamping her foot, cried "Just think if it had been a Bacchic celebration they'd been asked to attend-or something in honour of Pan or the Love Goddess-particularly the Love Goddess!" (Mock Horrified cries from audience.) "You wouldn't have been able to move for all the 'drums'. And now look-not a woman here!" (Laughter.) "Ah, here's one at last. One of my neighbors, I-Why, hello, Calonice."

(It was observed that, as part of her costume, Lysistrata's hair looked remarkably like a quiff.)

Calonice: (Not even in costume, with bushy beard, speaking in a deadpan tone with the script held right up before him.) Hello, Lysistrata. (Sees next line, sighs.) What's bothering you, dear? Don't screw your face up like that! (Pause-laughter-realizes there's more of this line to go.) It really, really, really doesn't suit you, you know-

Wag from Third Row: Hell no!

Calonice: (Frowning, deadpan)-knitting your eyebrows up like a bow or something.

Lysistrata: Sorry, Calonice, but I'm furious. I'm disappointed in womankind. (Points at Calonice's costume.) All our husbands think we're such clever villains-

Calonice: Well, aren't we?

Lyistrata: And here I've called a meeting to discuss this very important matter, and they're all fast asleep!

(Exit Publius Cassius Flaccus, citing work.)

The two women continued to discuss matters for a few moments, before Crixus sighed loudly when he saw the next few lines. "Here we go," he muttered loudly, before becoming Calonice.

Lyistrata: By Hercules, there are more important things than that!

Calonice (sighing, dull voice): Tell me, Lysistrate dear, what is it you've summoned this meeting of women for. Is it for something (long pause, searching script) big?

Lysistrata: (looks daggers at Calonice) Very.

Calonice: Not… hard, and thick as well? (Laughter from audience; squad in back row playing drinking game takes a swig each.)

Lyistrata: Very.

Calonice: Then why on earth aren't they here? (Sighs, face palms, makes obscene gesture with his fist.)

It was only in Latin translation, as most of the Varden soldiers were beginning to get a decent grasp of the language. However, it soon became apparent that knowledge of the lines and dialogue was not required to understand its main joke: large, hairy men in dresses, making unconvincing attempts at feminine voices having had a little too much to drink, with a few of the wittier ones wondering whether Crixus, aka Calonice, was deliberately acting this badly. Blohdgarm, it seemed, sat through it bolt upright without even smiling. He may have found a kindred spirit in Flaccus, had the redoubtable Legate not left half way through the first scene, and was thus not present to hear the plot unfolding through war, sex strike, and finally peace, with the "Heroic Zeus Born Maid" being celebrated by the chorus (who had quiffs for women, and twirling cloaks for men), the cast, and those of the audience who hadn't fallen asleep.

He stepped out onto the Contravallation, and stared out into the night. He could see the little lanterns, pipes and torches of the men, sparking into the darkness like the stars above. Close by, he could just about make out a magic user, walking the lines with magefire hovering over her hand; she was trying to impress someone, probably a man. Up here, there was nothing. Nothing, save for the very loudest shouts, and the constant whispering of the wind.

And, if one listened closely, marching boots. Nailed, and clattering down a road, with drums beating all the while. If one listened closely, you could almost hear the singing, and the rustle of furled banners. Tomorrow, of course, they would face those. Forty five thousand men would crash against his little wall, defended by a Legion thousands of miles from home, a well armed rabble, a regiment of cavalry who would most likely never make it, and a bunch of peasants that Spartucus would approve of, but no military officer would touch with a Sarissa. What could they possibly achieve? A doomed stand? Cato, doubtless, would approve. So would Nasuada, behind her little desk in Aberon. She would know that the Romans fought bravely. She would applaud how they fought honourably, standing against tyranny once and for all!

And she would know that the Romans died.

Would he hold? Would he fight like Caesar? Or would he fight like how, deep down, he feared himself to be, beneath his quiff and bluster, armour and horse and histories: an insignificant little man, with ridiculous big ears, struggling to enhance his dignitas, with an insignificant little family, who would lead his men to their deaths. How many consuls would the Publius Cassii ever produce, now that their Paterfamilias was trapped away? How many Emperors?

"The play wasn't that bad, I thought." It was Gydrynne, offering a hand.

He declined it. "An unutterably pointless waste of time. Degeneracy."

"But well liked."

"Yes."

Both of them stared out into the night.

"Tomorrow," Gydrynne said suddenly, "will be my first battle."

"Yes."

"Spurius told me something, you know. A little line of poetry."

He was not especially surprised at he extremely intimate "Spurius". "Let us hear it, then," he said, realizing that she was most likely worrying every bit as much as he was.

"From your Horace. It is sweet and fitting to, for your country, die." _Dulce Et Decorum Est, Pro Patria Mori. _She turned to him. "I just hope…"

"That it is?"

"Well…"

She had lost her husband, her brothers, her sons, her cousins, her lover. Now, she was in command of an army. Many would die. Possibly herself included. "But at least," she seemed to be thinking, as she breathed deeply and gazed, "I can do something about that." But what she said was: "What will it be like?"

So Flaccus, as far as he knew, told her. "They will probably bombard first, with whatever magic users and artillery they have. Then the infantry will advance, right across those plains and on both flanks. They will attack in a wave, with artillery and arrows ripping at them, shouting every cry they can, and with their own archers spitting arrows at our walls. If our archers are good, they will retreat, but if not, then they will put ladders to our walls, and clamber up. Or rams to our gates. It will be hot work at hand to hand then, but our men our good. They will be forced to retreat, but they could try and come again."

"And if they bring a dragon?"

"Marcus Thorius Mactator planned something."

"But he's dead."

"His plans, as far as I know, are being carried out. I am not at liberty to divulge them to you, I fear."

"But-" she sighed, and returned to staring.

After a while, when the army eventually returned to its goatskin tents, they shook hands, departed, and went to their beds. Both slept well.

The next day, the Imperial army arrived, a mass of blood red across the fields.

The day after, it attacked.

* * *

((Final Authors' Note: I will be completely honest here-I added so very, very many canon characters, regardless of where they actually were at the time-which wasn't so very far off, to be fair-purely to attract Inheritance fans, rather than my dedicated core of Romanophile reviewers. I hope I sort of do justice to them. And you know how I said last chapter that this one would be shorter? Well… it isn't, and I'm not sure about the next one. Sorry! I just can't resist ploughing through the plot quickly. Still, expect swashbuckling.))

Vitruvius: Roman engineer, architect, and artillerist.

Bicircumvallations: The system of fortifications is as described by Mactator, but it will be very important, and therefore deserves going over. There are walls both facing the enemy trapped in the city, and outside the city to hold off relief forces. These enable the besieger to wait out enemy counter attacks, whilst waiting for them to be starved into surrender. They were employed extensively by the Romans, most notably by Julius Caesar at the Siege of Alesia (52 BC) against Vercingetorix's Gauls. Suffice to say that it was extremely successful.

It was far from the only Roman siege tactic in all its long history, however; all kinds of strategies were employed, ranging from redirecting a river onto an enemy encampment, forcing them out by flooding it, to (a personal favourite) assaulting the "impregnable" Jewish held fortress of Masada in 72-3 AD by building a giant earth ramp up the side, not only of its walls, but also of the cliffs surrounding it, whilst under artillery bombardment. (The ramp remains today; and, whilst it was mostly an already existing spur of rock, it is still impressive.)

Tiberius…: The Emperor Tiberius, in 35 AD, was said to have used a system of flashing mirrors to communicate with Rome from his island villa.

Shadeslayer: One of my inventions. It's a shame that the Varden soldiers never get a nickname like "Tommy Atkins" or, in Inheritance, "Red Tunic", so I made one up.

A note on food supplies and harvests: I am, believe you me, not an expert on biology or geology. However, it does seem to be for societies without modern agriculture true that, in late summer, food stocks are scarcer, and prices consequently rise. For example, in the French Revolution, some would argue the attack on the Bastille was partly caused by the rise in bread prices causing the Parisian workers to become hungry and thus desperate (especially after the year's bad harvest.)

Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo: Quoted from Catullus (84 BC-54 BC), and not using 782. Its meaning? Well, now that I know for certain that I have readers who know a bit of latin, I may have to be careful about liberally deploying Latin so as to mask actual Roman swearing and insults. (NOTE:The last word is taken from an internet translator. When I typed the actual quote into the same translator, it came out as a somewhat nonsensical and non offensive jumble, so it is quite typical of internet translators.) So please guys: don't crack down too hard on me, or report me to anyone.

Calonice: A character in _Lysistrata_ (remember that play?) Yes, Pulcher is dead set on continuing with his little project.

Trebuchette/Trebuchay: Trebuchay is the right pronunciation. However, I thought that I may as well have the Roman occasionally mispronouncing Alagaesian also.

Red Team: Roman chariot racing was divided into four teams (red, white, blue and green.) Each had its own best selling merchandise and vicious fan club, and the sport was both extremely dangerous and extremely popular-everyone from slave to Emperor enjoyed it. There are records of fans receiving updates by carrier pigeon, and then fainting when the race was one; and one apparently jumped onto the funeral pyre of his favourite driver.

On the subject of ancient sporting heroes (queue digression), the Greeks only seemed to adore their own even more. For example, a Thasian athlete called Theganes won over 1400 prizes in his 22 year career, earning a statue in his hometown. A rival of his attacked the statute, but was killed when the statue crushed him to death. This caused the statue to be tried for murder, and thrown into the sea. However, a famine soon struck, and the Oracle of Delphi was consulted. Her advice was interpreted to mean that the statue had to be recovered-so it was taken from the depths, re erected, and apparently developed magical healing powers. Its base was also attached to the earth by metal rings, and remains to this day (sadly, the statue does not.)

((About these digressions-I personally think that they add a bit of colour to otherwise dry historical notes. If, however, you think them a waste of time, and that they shouldn't be involved in this fic of military adventure, then please tell me by review/PM.))

Thespian: "Thespian" as a term for actor would not be altogether inappropriate for a Roman audience, as the city of Thespiae contained many great works of art, worshipped the Muses (godesses of art and literature) and was home of the legendary actor Thespis. (Legendary in that he was, apparently, the first ever Actor as we would recognise it.)

Heroic Zeus Born Maid: The last line of the Chorus in Lysistrata, referring to the eponymous heroine.

Caesar, Africanus, Aristotle, Jupiter, Horace, and both Catos: I've done most of these already. Caesar is Julius Caesar, military genius and formidably cunning politician; Africanus another great Roman general, who defeated Hannibal and thus saved Rome; Aristotle is the scientist; Jupiter the premier Roman God; Horace a great Roman poet; Cato the Younger a fiercely stoic Republican; and Cato the Elder a soldier, politician, and prolific writer on everything from history to farming. In short, all wise, all powerful, all knowing, and the saviors of everyone. This is more or less how Paolini has portrayed the Elves on the whole (for good or ill when it comes to his story), Vanir excluded, and thus probably how the pro Varden writers would consider them.

Magoquy: Another invention. I just thought that, as Shakespeare characters often announce their thoughts by soliloquy to the audience, a magic user amongst a race of superb magic users would announce the same thing by direct mind transmission with magic. It would, if anything, require even greater mental focus; keeping one's brain clear of anything apart from the play.

Something of the Greek: Partly, this means its strange, manly musk, which a Roman would probably consider effeminate (like all forms of perfume) or even attracting the Greek form of love. Now, a misconception needs to be batted aside here; if an Ancient Greek was to be told of a pair of men, from the same city and of equal age, conducting a sexual relationship, the Greek would be appalled. After all, for a Greek, the man was supposed to sexually dominate, and everyone else submit. Having two men having sex together would mean that one submitted, and that would just be unmanly! However, this list of everyone else a man could have sex with would include women, foreigners, slaves, eunuchs, and younger men. So, next time someone goes on about how sexually tolerant and understanding the Greeks were, and how the Athenians were a bunch of "boy lovers" compared to the oh so manly Spartans, you have my express permission to laugh at them. Preferably in a most superior manner.

Behind our wooden walls: The Oracle of Delphi advised Athens to defend itself from the Persians with their "wooden walls". The Athenians took this to mean their navy.

Vanir: To confirm: this is the Jeod I've had star in my other fanfic, "The Adventures of Brom and Jeod" (but without any of the stuff from outside Alagaesia, or his meetings with the mysterious gentleman in the black T Shirt.) As such, he may make references to it. For more detail about the misadventures of Alagaesia's two grumpy old men, have a glance through that.

Lysistrata…: Firstly: as a legal note, I do not own it. I have taken lines from the "Penguin Classics Edition" of Lysistrata/The Acharnians/The Clouds, translated by Alan H. Sommerstein. I am uncertain as to how authoratitve he is, as he has the chorus singing mostly in Gilbert and Sullivan (neither of whom were especially popular in 5th Century BC Athens, I gather), but it will serve. I have, slightly, amended these lines, but keeping them close to the original. I apologize for purists, but my justification is that a) the translation is a bit dodgy, and b) no one has actually practiced this very much.

From the bits of Aristophanes I've read, he wrote a great deal of dirty jokes, with farcical plotting and situations, all being brought to an end by a resourceful hero using a bizarre method (whether flying a dung beetle to heaven to plea to the Gods to and the War, asking Socrates to teach him how to repay his debts with a philosophical argument or, most incredibly of all, giving women the vote.) Along the way, it seemed to be his mission to include as many notable Athenians as possible (with everyone from the warmongering politician Kleon to Socrates the philosopher getting a good beating), constantly satirizing Athenian life. In particular, he was against the War being fought against Sparta, damning Cleon in almost every play, giving characters "Cleonitis" for being too pro war. As in tragedy, costumes would be stylized-but rather than wearing long robes, the comedians would wear obscenely bulging tunics and ugly masks, with a chorus in the background commenting on the situation.

Greek plays were performed for the Festival of Dionysos (24th-28th March), and were judged on their merit (in another Aristophanes play, he has his characters ask the judges to treat it kindly), with tragedy in the morning, and comedy in the afternoon. The prize for the winning play, apart from considerable acclaim, would be a bronze tripod, inscribed with the names of the musician, playwright and presiding Athenian magistrate, displayed by the road from the sanctuary of Dionysos around the Acropolis. If the play went really well, the masks of the actors would be dedicated to Dionsyos to thank him for his blessing.

Of course, how it would be staged by a Roman military unit is another matter entirely, partly because they aren't staging it in the 24th-28th March, but in autumn. I suppose that this is as good a time as any to apologize for my occasional monkeyings around with the seasons as laid out by CP. Please forgive my lack of knowledge, not having read the books for a while, and Paolini's own lack of precision when dealing with matters of time (for example, Elain remains pregnant for long past 9 months, as far as I can tell. I hope her children are well.)


	9. II: Fire

Readers, if this military stuff is boring you, I sincerely apologise. In my defence, I can only say that, as a tale of Roman Legions, rather than Vestal Virgins (a group of Roman society somewhat closer to the normal person dumped into a fantasy world, albeit with a looser attitude towards "Virgin"), it was only to be expected that this sort of thing would take place quite a lot. But fear not! This chapter has an actual battle taking place, rather than a leisurely tour of siege works; I admit that careful examinations of someone's fences and ditches may get dull for anyone who doesn't like gardening, self included. I may even sprinkle in a few canon characters. Oh, yes. I already have. Here goes!

_Enemy General to Gaius Marius, Roman General (in a defensive position): If you are such a good general, why won't you come out and fight?_

_Gaius Marius: If you think you are any good, why don't you try to make me?_

"So this," Blohdgarm said to himself, "is what forty five thousand people look like."

He turned, and jumped down from the firestep in one bound, prompting cheers from a platoon of Varden archers, who were marching by to take their positions. He bowed delightedly, and strode over to the pavilion.

"Do you know," the elf said, "I have just seen the greatest assemblage of people an elf has witnessed for a whole century?"

"No," replied a legionary, busily dragging a writing desk into position; this was to be the headquarters for the Allied armies.

"Do you know," the elf began to the next man he met, "I have-"

"I heard," said Pulcher wearily; these damnable elves were a strange folk.

"Is that not exciting? Incredible? Enigmatic!"

"Nothing beyond the normal crowd at the Flavian," Pulcher said. "I would love to chat, but-"

"No, you wouldn't. I can sense it. Emanating from your head, your brain, your very skin. Do you know that, when your hairs rise in fear, it is your body trying to look bigger? Fascinating, fascinating!"

Normally, perhaps, Pulcher would have found this interesting, and his inner Pliny would have been eager to hear more. But not now. He was dressed in full armour, from boots to plumed Attic helmet, and it was an effort to keep the hand on his sword hilt from shaking. It was, unfortunately, one of those days.

"And fear, too. Yes, fear. That's good, good! Everyone has it, you know, yes, but you must learn to shield your mind, yes, tricky thing for a human, I know, weaker and all that, but still could get you into trouble, and…"

"My apologies, but I have work to do," Pulcher said firmly. "I will try to forget your accusations, Blohdgarm." And, even worse, Flaccus was approaching briskly, and having his supposed mentor hear about any fear or weakness in the part of his student would never be for the better.

Fortunately, perhaps, Flaccus handled the elf more directly. "Blohdgarm," he said firmly, "have you ever in your life been a staff officer?"

"Spellweaver, sculptor, painter, actor, shapechanger, spy, gardener, clockmaker and horse trader," the elf replied, "but not a staff officer."

"Do you wish to become one in the next five minutes?"

For a moment, Blohdgarm looked almost startled. He was not accustomed to having human beings reject him from their counsels. "Not especially, if all are so surly."

"If that is the case, then you shall stop harassing my senior Military Tribune. I have need of him, and we already have a magic user assigned to us. Good day, sir, and may Mars smile on you."

That hurt the elf. It seemed to flinch, suddenly. "I have no need for your Gods, but I thank you for the gesture. Farewell!" It bounded onto the walls again, and started running at full pelt, ducking and diving past startled soldiers as it went.

"Foreigners," Flaccus muttered to himself. "Foreigners! And that… thing, young man, is considered the model for the upstanding Varden child."

"It seemed amiable enough, sir," Pulcher said placatingly. "Just somewhat strange."

"Indeed. In any case, let us recap. Gnaeus Aurelius, as I am supposed to teach you the arts of war: you know why we are here?" Flaccus rapped the ground beneath him with his cane.

"Our headquarters. Right. Well, sir, we have taken up a central position; if we are to imagine our fortifications as a giant flipped over "C", which we can more or less, we are right in the outward point of the curve. We are here so as to take up a central position, and-and so as runners, from whatever section of the line, know where we are, and can thus reach us relatively easily. We are also in between the Bicircumvallations, rather than on the front line, so as we can adequately direct the battle, rather than get caught in the midst of it, where we will be too busy defending ourselves to give orders; after all, Centurions are the men who lead the front line. However, our horses are saddled nearby, so as we can ride up and down the line in times of relative calm, to survey the situation, and offer encouragement. In addition, here we can easily direct the distribution of reserves. Anything else, sir?"

"Crudely put, Gnaeus Aurelius, but very good. Yes. Gydrynne, of course, is not obeying any of this advice, but she rarely does." Flaccus remembered trying to talk her out of it.

"Ma'm," he had began earlier that morning, almost pleadingly, "you must remain at headquarters."

"Pray tell me why," she had replied, in full chainmail coat, with the sword of her fathers drawn and shouldered.

"You are the commander of the Varden forces. You are required to issue orders."

"Which I can do perfectly well at the front."

"It is also, I fear, highly likely that you will be killed. You are-"

"Go on," she said, eyes suddenly ablaze. "Say it."

Flaccus refused to take the bait; these women would forever remain deluded. "Someone who has never previously fought in hand to hand combat. Someone who could be come a liability to her troops, endangering their lives as they try to protect her. Someone who, so as to maintain the morale of the men, cannot possibly be allowed to perish."

She ignored him, and donned her helmet, the heavy nose guard hiding her face altogether. "Women of the Varden, unlike women of the Patrician class, take lessons in swordsmanship," she said. And that was that.

"This leaves us, of course, to actually lead the soldiers of not only the XXIII Adiutrix, but of our entire force. I apologise, young man, for the additional workload; it is to be hoped that you will soon grasp just why I ordered you to work more on administrative tasks than on improving your sword arm." Flaccus smiled wryly. "As a soldier of Rome, your sword must be drawn to defend it- but your pen more often."

Pulcher drew his gladius. "I sharpened it myself," he said proudly.

"So you have, so you have." Flaccus half drew his spatha. "Blunt. Diapente will be informed. Now, as a good tutor, I must give you a bonus question of some sort: how many reserves do we have?"

"Simple!" Pulcher beamed. "The fourty three remaining Roman Cavalrymen, under Decurion Parmenion; the entirety of the Second Cohort, three hundred and thirteen men, under Centurion Curio; and the Carvahall Militia, under… Roran, numbering one hundred and fourty seven. This brings the total to five hundred and three held in reserve, as well as Tenor Skeate, the magic user assigned to protect HQ, and relay messages, and our slaves, camp followers, and staff officers."

"Very good." Flaccus turned, and saw that the desk had finally been put into position, the camp chairs moved up, and the map of the defences unrolled. His staff officers were the Military Tribunes, and a few slaves acting as secretaries, with everyone else stationed with their units at the front. "Now, Gnaeus Aurelius, there are two more preparations, before our Headquarters is battle ready. The first is that you have a word with the Varden Lieutenant Claye, and ask him to issue us with shields and javelins, enough for each man on the staff to be equipped; we've been stocking up on them. Should we be attacked, and with their magic users this should not be discounted, we must be ready to defend ourselves." The unspoken threat was also there: the other flyers, dragons. If they came, then whatever Mactator's plan was would have to be damn good.

"And the second?"

"Ah. I make an inspiring speech."

"Is that… essential, sir?"

"Not as such. Ah, Tertius, the map." Flaccus flexed his fingers, and seated himself behind the desk, glad of the shade; the storm had broken last night, but it had passed, and the day was set to be, in terms of weather if not of warfare, glorious. He stared at it intently; their defences were, as Pulcher had rightly said, shaped like a giant semicircle, with Vrael and Augustus as the tips, their HQ at the outmost point of the curve, and surrounding Aroughs. The walls were divided into 128 sections, each roughly 100 yards in length, and each defended by the rough equivalent of a Century. Around 60 men per section, or-

"Zero point six men per yard, Master." Tertius. "Not counting reserves, of course."

"Yes. I can see Pythagoras and Archimedes had at work in there, my Man. It will serve, I think."

"Indeed, Master. Coffee?"

Why not? "And fetch a few jugs, too! All we have left. I fear, my Man, that this will be a tiring day."

On the walls, most of the men agreed. The majority, as it was already past dawn, were asleep. All soldiers could sleep at a moment's notice, and all knew that they would catch little after the drums started beating. Some played dice, a handful of officers read, the old jokes and songs were trotted out:

Singer: _Today's my daughter's wedding day, Ten thousand crowns I'll give away_

Audience: _Hooray! Hooray!_

Singer: _On second thoughts, I think it best, to store it in the old oak chest-_

Audience (with officer/sergeant nearby): _You stupid bastard! You bleeder, you… _(continue ad nauseum, all rhyme and rhythm quite forgotten.)

A few of the Varden, a very few who still had faith after a century of elven teachings, sang hymns, softly humming out half remembered verses as their cooking fires dwindled to nothingness and the sharpening stones were produced. And in one emplacement, a Centurion and a gentleman sat, sharing a telescope and a wineskin.

"See there?" Jeod pointed at the Imperial Army. "My fellow Dras Leonans."

"Where?" Centurion Gaius Petraeus Agelastus took the telescope, followed the finger. "Red robes?"

"Red robed, surly, lost a few limbs, cutting each other up with Gods know what." Jeod took another swig of wine. And another. "Temple Priests. Fanatics."

"Nice hometown. I thought you were with the militia."

"My rank is entirely advisory, and changes with the seasons. I come from Dras Leona. Someone had to." Jeod laughed. "My memoirs. First line."

"Right. Wineskin, old man."

"Old? Well, you young…" Jeod muttered, but handed over the wine.

He had no doubt that the Empire was doing much the same.

At ten o'clock, on Morzan's Eve, the Empire made its move, and the eyes of the world were upon them.

In Tronjheim and Aberon, Uru'baen and Teirm and Du Weldenvarden, maps were being opened, and crowned heads stared intently, their Captains and Ministers and Magic Users alongside them. Should the lines around Aroughs hold, should the roaring half circle of steel and wood hold them back, then the Empire would be repelled, its armies humiliated, a great and prosperous city seized intact, and the Autumn rains would make any attempts to retake it impossible. This they knew. They also knew that, should the Red Tunics, with their numbers and magic and brute courage, tear through the walls, carry their pikes into the guts of the foe, then one third of Nasuada's army would be gone, and their job next Spring that bit harder, that bit more bloody, more impossible. So the crowned heads, Captains, Minsters and Magic Users sent their goodwill to the troops, and the maps rolled shut.

Flaccus heard the attack before he saw it. He was about to make his speech, the Tribunes and slaves seated, when the whole world seemed to groan at once; the sound of over close on sixty thousand men getting to their feet and drawing weapons.

"Gentlemen." The speech now seemed, as it usually did, quite pointless. "I wish you the best of fortunes." The staff shook hands, as the noise swelled. A mass of steel being sharpened one last time, men muttering, orders being roared, trumpets sounding, and over it all the strange, roaring songs of the Imperial Army, the sort that seemed to be ripped from the bowels of the Earth; the words quite indistinct, but all deep, powerful, unstoppable.

Skeate was whispering the words to himself, learned from the dungeons of Gil'ead: "O now humanity, let the people arise, no force on earth no can e'er stem the tide, and 'gainst the elven hordes now, the red host marches forth…"

"Silence in the ranks!" Flaccus ordered. Skeate obeyed.

For a few long moments, the song rolled on; then there was a great crash. Flaccus could picture it; thousands of shields being raised in unison and locked together. And the tramp, tramp, tramp of marching boots across the muddy ground.

He noticed that someone had drawn his sword. "Put that away, Gaius Aemilius! There is no need for it just yet, I assure you."

He could imagine them, too, the thousands of red tuniced men, their Black Hand Agents opening their mouths, and sure enough the high, indistinct sounds of men reciting political slogans almost as if it was poetry. None of the words were distinct yet; but the tone was clear. Urging men on, to greater victory and glory, over this paltry pile of logs and mud to give the Elvenist pig dogs a good ratting, or some such nonsense, and he had time to notice the contrast to the Varden lines: silence, complete silence.

No, that was not quite true. The Varden officers may have taken up the Roman habit of ordering their men to save their energy for their sword blows, but they still hated the Empire with an astonishing venom. A strange, buzzing muttering, up and down the line, from men in dirty tunics and armour who crouched behind their parapets, weapons clutched in white knuckled hands; cursing, boasting, whistling through the wind.

And the creak of ballistae being ratcheted back to maximum tension. Eyes stared through sights, fingers made final adjustments, and, as the enemy reached five hundred yards distant, the order came.

"Volley!" The crack of ox sinew and womens' hair strings being loosed, and bolts spitting out of the towers. The first volley was always a ranging shot, to establish targets and adjustments, especially as the enemy could possibly be deploying men who could, at maximum range at least, hold a flying bolt with a word and a gesture. Immediately, artillery commanders started shouting corrections, making adjustments. A few screams could be heard, though. Not enough.

And the shouting took on a strange note. What was it? A thought immediately flashed into Flaccus' mind, but he dismissed it. Impossible! He looked up at the Bicircumvallations, each wall a hundred yards from HQ. Well defended by good men, who waved and saluted cheerfully down at him. Or hemming him in, like a rat in a trap…

Another volley was loosed, the men cheered-a few hits then-but the enemy continued to advance. Professionals, then, or at least someone with good morale, and that damned shouting just got louder. The tramping of boots, though, had completely died, as men struggled through the carefully emplaced spiked ditches, already muddy and treacherous.

The crossbows now, thumping away, both Imperial and Roman; the Legion now had a century or so of crossbows, scavenged and captured, and plenty of bolts. The Empire loosed thousands of bolts in a massive volley, its bowmen crouching behind pavises, but the allies remained safely behind their ramparts. Here and there, a man fell, and the first cries of "Healers! Medicus!" were to be heard. The Romans, taking careful aim, shot back; but with what result, Flaccus could not hear.

He realized that he was still standing, gripping his cane and staring intently at the Contravallation. He cursed himself inwardly and nonchalantly sat down in the camp chair, took up the pen, and waited.

"They seem to be getting closer," said Pulcher after a moment that seemed a lifetime.

"Wait." Flaccus looked up at the soldiers. On both sides, their archers were shooting, and the Legionaries were groping for Pila. "Indeed."

The noise was unchanged. What was that shouting? More screams, another volley of crossbow bolts, more ballistae.

"Indeed. Tenor Skeate! Can you feel anything?" Flaccus turned to Skeate, only to find that the magic user was standing bolt upright, a look of intense concentration on his face. "Skeate?"

The man stood there, fists clenched, robes limp in the day which seemed suddenly and oppressively airless. Sweat trickled down the back of Flaccus' neck. "Magic attack," he said. Calmly, he erected his mental defences, an image of his villa, and waited. He had expected this, and didn't expect any undue harm to come to his men. After all, elves were supposedly the equal of a hundred men when it came to magic, and allowing for exaggeration Blohdgarm was still extremely powerful, as far as he could judge. But, all the same, that removed any chances of magical healing, or magical communications. Damn.

The reserves stood nearby, weapons still sheathed. "What's happening?" asked the Militia leader-Roran, that's the one.

"We're buggering 'em," an artilleryman called down cheerfully.

"I mean down there?"

"What I said."

"Tell me more," a young voice-shockingly young-piped up, "or I'll go up that tower, and stick this in your-"

"Quiet, Noll! Your mother told you not to do that." Roran raised his hammer. "What he said."

"Easy, friend, easy! Well, they're going through the ditches in the outer walls, and we're shooting them. At the inner walls-" the artilleryman turned, "we're-edepol!"

"What?"

"They're fucking swarming us!"

The Circumvallation, which was only likely to face the small, poorly armed, trained and equipped Aroughs militia, was relatively lightly manned; each "century" at each section had had half its men removed. Unfortunately, no one had told the Aroughs militia that they were considered small, poorly armed, trained and equipped, for they were hurling themselves at the wall with a ferocity that few had ever witnessed: that of the poor man driving trespassers off their land.

And they did so with every scrap of ingenuity they could muster. During the night, their magic users had snuck out into no man's land, with parties of volunteers, dug themselves hiding holes, and had taken ladders. They had then waited for hours, buried in the mud like worms, until the order to attack was given; and then they had hurled themselves forward. This, they hoped, would be enough to get ladders set up quickly, also absorbing the relatively minimal levels of archery and artillery with their wards, until the rest of the militia could arrive to overwhelm the defenders.

That, at least, was their plan. With a roar, their assault parties had attacked, the volleys being absorbed by their wards; and, as Flaccus watched, the ladders swung up, all across the line, connecting with the walls. "Contact!" the cry went. "Contact!"

"Reserves!" Flaccus yelled. "Prepare to engage!"

With redoubled cheers, he hear the rest of the Aroughs militia attacking. Would the archers stop them? He hoped so. Six thousand against just over two thousand was not good odds, and-

"Ladders! Contravallation!" Cheers from the outer wall. By Hercules! They were so close that he could actually hear the slogans of their magic users- "Onwards and upwards, soldiers, upwards in the name of the King! Glory for the first Matyr to die! Charge"-the encouragements of their officers- "Up, man! Up! Come on, Attwood, move your lazy bones up that ladder!" And that damnable shouting just seemed to redouble, and redouble, and then that was drowned out too by the words, the magnificent words: "Milites! Ready your pila! Militeees- Cast your Pila!"

He took another glance at both walls. He could see a ladder on the Circumvallation, most likely one of many, but from the pavilion he couldn't tell, could see a helmet struggling up, and then a crossbow bolt, shot at point blank range, hurling it back down- and on the Contravallation, Varden infantrymen raising a forked pole, ready to shove ladders back down. "Executores-time for those shields, I think," he said, grabbing one. If those crossbowmen got close, they could pour volleys over the wall, and the HQ could be a good target. He grabbed a shield, and returned to staring intently at the Contravallation.

A ladder. The Varden footmen pushed at it with their pole, struggling against the weight of the armoured men climbing, and the soldiers below pushing back. "To ascend to the glory of the riders, soldiers, is our duty! So, as Galbatorix said to the Great Morzan-Up, friends! Up! Upwards, to glory-" and then the crossbows thumped out. "Shields up!" Flaccus said, and the staff immediately dived into a Testudo. No bolts hit, but they still huddled there, listening to the sounds of battle.

At the sound of running footsteps, they immediately broke apart. Runners were pouring in at them, runners in lorica segmentata and runners in mail coats, runners clutching bandages and shields and messages, all speaking in a mad, frenzied babble of words, tugging at staff officers, desperately trying to attract attention.

"No. 48 section under heavy assault! Request-"

"No. 97 section, reporting sir. Centurion Hortensius-"

"Thousands of 'em, thousands! I need troops!"

"They won't fucking die-"

"Sir, advice for the others-aim for the neck, it sorts 'em out quick and sharp!"

"Gainswald's Foot is being hit, sir. Fifteen dead. Reinforce it!"

"Ladders won't get pushed out! Magic, I say-"

"Laughing at us, sir, laughing at us!"

That was it! The shouting-no, laughter! "Quiet!" Flaccus was not Mactator, but his voice still had a certain parade ground snap which called the runners to attention. "Gentlemen, one at a time. Form queues. My staff will allocate reinforcement as per need. And who, by Hercules, is laughing?"

They were all too eager to respond to that. "Soldiers! Red tunics, cut 'em, they don't even blink-"

"Sergeant Rokeby decapitated one. They can die. Just no pain, he thought-"

"Devils! Madmen!"

"Very well." Flaccus sighed, turned to Tertius. "My Man, start copying this. Standing order: if your enemy laughs at you, aim for the neck, the spine, anywhere which causes crippling wounds. Blows anywhere else are unlikely to slow them. Is that clear?"

"Entirely, Master."

"Good. Reinforcements, I think!"

And so the reserves started to dwindle. The first man, from No. 48 section, received twenty militiamen, Roran at their head. With a disgusted look, and receiving a cold one from Flaccus, he turned, and led the march back to his position. Some runners were wounded, and one even collapsed on the spot. But, with teeth gritted, the Tribunes ploughed on, taking stock of their troops, and handing them out with like a miser with his last coppers. So slowly! So very slowly, and every so often Flaccus would glance up and catch glimpses of the combat raging on both walls.

Two Imperial Officers, fighting back to back; one a little man, rapier and dagger flicking out against Jeod's blade, the other a beak helmeted giant, all shining plate and fiery tabard, crushing helmets with short, vicious blows of his mace…

A legionary backed against a tower and stabbing madly with his gladius, shield raised, and then slipping on blood…

The Black Hand of the Aroughs militia now fighting in the front rank, wards expended, but sword to sword, spitting defiance and magic with equal vigour…

A press of men, Varden and Roman alike, all stabbing and hacking at a ladder-what was on it, he couldn't make out…

And, of course, there was much that he did not see, as the red of the Imperial banners clashed with the purple of the Varden flags, and the Legion's standards: of hands promising loyalty, and Trajan glaring, and the lion and wolfskins of the bearers. At No. 8 Sector, Gydrynne led her troops, as promised, from the front, with Lieutenant Claye on her left, swinging with his poleaxe, and Goge to her right singing at the top of his voice and blasting soldiers back with magefire. Between them, they held the sector with a single squad, ordering the rest away to help other sectors; for, once they secured the top of the ladder, it was a matter of attacking one man at a time, and ducking to avoid crossbow bolts. Centurion Agelastus, when his sword was lodged in a corpse, defended himself barehanded, knocking a "Laugher" off the ladder with one blow. His men cheered-but he fell back, vomiting out his lifeblood, shot by an entire company of crossbowmen. Above the gatehouse, acting Primus Pilus Dexter stalked the lines, sword drawn, encouraging his men to throw pila, stones, sticks, whatever came to hand. No less than four ladders had adhered themselves to the walls, and no amount of pushing could clear them; but the First Cohort locked shields and held. And on the Circumvallation, of course, there was Blohdgarm, a blur of blue fir, lashing out with his sword and gutting squads. Where he walked, the Aroughs men died.

Flaccus saw none of this, for the entire staff was working feverishly hard. As the reserves shrank, so too did their supplies of ink; figure after figure was scrawled into each Sector on the map, as they tried desperately to work out who was fighting where, who was taking casualties, and the exact strengths of the enemy at each point. And all this through reports muttered by hoarse voiced men, begging for more troops, as orders were being roared all round in cracked, desperate voices, and the air was full with clashing steel and the screams of the wounded, and suddenly the entire staff would be forced to grab shields again, and again, as volley after volley of crossbow bolts rained down. Occasionally, Tribunes would be ordered into the towers to call down figures; but this was unreliable, dangerous work-at a distance, soldiers were virtually indistinguishable, and the towers were attracting the attention of crossbowmen and magic user alike.

After an hour, or a year, the fighting died down. The steel ceased to clash, but the screams carried on, and on, as the Casparii and Medicus, the magic users utterly spent after holding off over four times their number, carried them off to the medical tents. It was said that Varden officers, before learning that magic users were not available, begged Cato, with his well used bone saws and suspicious looking herbs, not to administer to their men; and even when told, they only gave them up grudgingly. "Calm down, man!" he would say. "It's for your health. Now, bite this, we'll get you some poppy, there's a good lad, but there'll be some pain. Better lose the leg than your body. Right, here goes…"

Flaccus remained hunched over the map until the runners came, once more, to tell him that, at long last, the Reds were pulling back. Only then did he allow himself to slump down in his chair once more, staring at the inky mess of the map. "An interesting morning," he said to no one in particular, before noticing that it was still scarcely eleven o'clock on the sundial. "And still more of it, I think." He mopped his brow, and accepted a coffee from Tertius; it was cold, but still liquid, and he felt a measure of strength return. "Excellent. Thank you, my Man." He sat for a moment longer, and then clambered to his feet. "Gnaeus Aurelius, it is time to tour the lines."

"Already, sir?" Pulcher felt like, more than anything else, falling asleep for a long time. Long, dreamless, and without any bloodshed. He sagged under the weight of his armour. "But…"

"You are, I presume, worried that the staff will be left unsupervised. Well, no matter. Tribune Publius Rutilius! As the eldest, you are in command. The Tribunus Laticlavius and I are to take a stroll." The Tribune saluted. "Excellent. Well, young man, you may put your mind at rest. To horse!"

So Bucephalus and Xanthus, Flaccus and Pulcher, rode down the line. On horseback, they could carry far more in their saddlebags. They threw sustenance to the troops, who cheered in gratitude. Oranges, wineskins, tobacco pouches, loaves, whatever their stores had left. Once, they were invited onto the battlements. "I've got three wounded men and tobacco I want to finish before I get spitted by one of their damn bows," the Optio explained, his Centurion having been killed. "Come on up."

Flaccus chided him for his pessimism, but they went up anyway, picking their way up the ladder. "How many?" he asked.

"We were hit hard, sir. Laughers, leapers, and Rufus in his hundreds." Rufus. Another nickname for an imperial soldier.

"Leapers?"

"Their witches. They jump, sometimes. With their… well, we can stop 'em with the old cold steel. They get tired, we think." The Optio shrugged, and fumbled for his tobacco pouch. "Bastards, sir."

"Yes." Flaccus turned to Pulcher, and noticed him staring, wide eyed. "Tribunus Laticlavus Pulcher?"

Pulcher seemed to shake himself. "I-" he sucked in a breath. "Something I ate," he explained lamely, before accepting the offer of tobacco, and producing his pipe.

He had, of course, seen the corpses, smelt their stench, heard the desperate moans of the wounded, and worst of all the occasional chuckles emanating from a few mangled wrecks of flesh. Seen the dogs and crows starting already flocking in, and the guts flopping out. But, as Flaccus told himself, if one's mind lingered on these for too long, one would be driven to insanity. So he made his small talk, told them that Sir Leon would be coming soon, offered his flint and tinder, and rode on.

Next stop was at Gydrynne's section; they received a good skin of wine, and a coin for the bravest man among them, which proved to be, by almost unanimous vote, a blushing Gydrynne. As he always did in these situations, Flaccus shook the recipient's hand, explained that medals could be flashed about-and stopped, when he realized that her hand had lost a finger.

When he pointed this out, she looked down with mild surprise. "Well, fancy! I never felt it!" she said, actually laughing-and then noticing the blood trickling out of the stump of her little finger.

"We'll fetch a healer," Claye said.

"No," she replied firmly. "The spellweavers are busy enough as it is." She bound it with a strip torn from Claye's own tunic-he had insisted that it would be is-and took a sip of the wine.

"Sir Leon," Flaccus told her, "is coming." He knew nothing of the sort, but neither did she, and in any case something had to keep them going.

"I know," she replied, smiling-a tired smile, but undoubtedly a worried one.

"No one," Flaccus said as they rode on, with what Pulcher took to be a slightly begrudging note in his voice, "can deny that she is brave. But we have Centurions for the front, and the Optio when the Centurion falls."

Pulcher could only nod, and check his saddle.

And jump as, quite suddenly, there was a cry of "Aroughs!" from a thousand throats, and the militia charged again.

The Aroughsmen were nothing, if they were not brave. Their morning attack, so carefully prepared, and conducted with fresh troops and massive support from the Imperial Army, had been thrown back, dashed to pieces by a blue furred fury and the steel of the Varden; but they continued to throw themselves forward, over and over again. With shields hacked from doors and the hulls of their useless fishing boats, with whatever melee weapons came to hand: axes, mallets, harpoons, chisels, knives, fists, feet, teeth, they charged in their great waves. Perhaps they knew that they were doomed, but knowing that their city could suffer all the worse, even as they fell dying to spell and sword, and the repeated, deadly volleys of archery, crossbow bolts and the dreaded ballistae.

After the fourth attack, the order had been given to cease fire with the Circumvallation's artillery, so as to conserve ammunition; but this only seemed to spur the efforts of the Aroughs soldiers on. "Drakenfarl!" they would shout. "Avenge Drakenfarl!" Only twice did they so much as reach their ladders stacked against the walls, but still they came, panting, the Black Hand fighting as common soldiers, their magic entirely expended.

After the eighth attack, Flaccus, glancing up from his headquarters, decided that enough was enough. The sun was, agonizingly slowly, beginning to sink, and he couldn't have them attacking alongside the Imperial army again. So, with a worried glance towards the red tunics amassing outside the Contravallation, he strode onto the Circumvallation's bloodied parapet, distinctive in his red cloak and cane, cleared his throat, and addressed the militia at the top of his voice, in his finest Alagaesian. Tertius, of course, was at his side to record his words.

"Citizens of Aroughs! For long, you have fought us. And for long, citizens, we have admired your bravery! Your courage, citizens, is beyond question. Your valour, even against the most desperate of odds, is unmatched! Your honour, as long as there is a city of Aroughs, will be remembered for generations. But, citizens, it is futile! Can you not see, that you are faced with miles of fortifications, thousands of soldiers, and tens of thousands of arrows? Do you not feel pity for your losses already suffered? For the brothers slain? Citizens, do you wish your menfolk to suffer further? Is it not obviously necessary for you to surrender, to prevent further bloodshed?"

Three black robes flitted forward, and another hobbled on a crutch-but all were pushed aside by a burly man, who walked right up to the foot of the wall, apparently oblivious to the scores of archers tracking him. "Our response, sir," he said, "is this." He turned, dropped his breeches, and shat on the ground.

Tertius reflected to himself that this was far from the worst reception his master's speeches had received, but had the sense not to say so. "You are foolish," Flaccus choked out from his red face.

"We don't want to get razed," the man replied, walking back to the militia. "Lay on, you wankers!"

So they did, for another four waves. The men on the Contravallation were tired, but continued to fight on. Camp followers and slaves provided a chain of buckets of water, arrows and food, to keep them fresh; so they continued to pour their ceaseless black rain into the attackers, and to repel whatever bloodied, sweltering, pantering men struggled up the ladders with their blades. Their banners were raised high, and their faces set. They were invincible!

But Sir Leon did not come.

It was late afternoon, a time when shadows usually lengthen. The space between the walls was a churned up sea of dirt and half dried mud, strewn with bodies, tents and barrels. Pipe smoke was trickling up, and the men talked more hopefully. Sir Leon still had not come; true, but neither had Rufus from the outside, and at this rate he never would. Some even dozed. Crossbow bolts whizzed up as swarms of men shot from defensive ditches, and the ranks were starting to dwindle, and the Medicus was frighteningly busy; but it was difficult too draw a bead through the parapet, so Cato was kept comparatively idle. Flaccus yawned, stretched, stared up at the beautiful blue sky. "Shadeslayer will come, gentlemen," he said. "Tomorrow, most likely. Well done."

Someone screamed.

There was something in the scream that drove Flaccus' hand to his sword hilt. Something deeper, harsher, than mere physical pain, and he could hear steel rasping out up and down the walls in response. It was intensely loud, inhumanly so. No man's vocal cords could sustain that, he thought with a suppressed shudder. No man's.

It was coming closer. Some staff officers seized javelins and shields. "Put them down," Flaccus said with a deceptive calm. "It is only a wounded man." But he could hear no one ordering it to stop, which was odd. A Centurion would usually order them to shut up immediately, and the Varden Captains, whilst unaccountably lenient about such things, would usually have called for stretcher bearers. "Nothing of any great import-"

"I see it!" Pulcher pointed.

"See what, Gnaeus Aurelius?"

"Choirmaster Goge, sir."

Witchery! Flaccus followed Pulcher's finger, and saw a small, robed figure running right at them. A mad, stumbling run, with a strong smell of sweat, excrement-and fear.

Goge closed with them, and shot past without even noticing, yelling his head off, scattering maps and tribunes in his wake. "Report, Choirmaster!" Flaccus yelled ineffectually after him. "Report!"

This was quite beyond Pulcher. He had read of madness, yes, but he was never a doctor. He had seen madness, yes, in his family, but had never been called upon to cure it. Usually the victim fell on his sword or swallowed hemlock in a lucid moment. A good, Roman death. But this was a different world: a strange, mad world full of strange, mad people who fought for strange, mad causes; and, connecting them, he thought of Blohdgarm.

"He is dead," said the familiar voice. Blohdgarm, of course, dropped lightly by him, sword drawn, but entirely at ease with himself.

"He is running," said Flaccus.

"He is dead," the elf repeated. "His mind is gone."

"How so?" asked Pulcher.

"Another has taken control of it. A mind of intense power, and great cunning. It will, in a few seconds after it has leeched his thoughts and memories away with intense satisfaction, order him to jump off Augustus, and plunge into the ocean, where he will shortly drown." The elf said all this with a strange smile. "I can understand the urge perfectly."

"Why Goge?" asked a Tribune, with the unspoken question: why not us?

"Because he is an important part of our magical defence, I am too resilient, and this mind has only so much energy."

"And can you not prevent it?" Pulcher asked.

"Can I? _Can I?_" the elf hissed. "I have fought their minions for a day! Whist you sat here and toyed with your maps and pens, I have been striving against black cloaks, hundreds of black cloaks, and never once have I failed! While your paltry humans muttered their incantations and summoned their little candles, I have torched the King's men in their thousands, and you _dare _suggest that, in all that time, I may not have became a little weary? When there is not only a man coming, but a _DRAGON_!"

There was a brief, stunned silence. The elf had intensified to shouting, speaking with ever increasing rapidity, close, one might think, to panic.

"A dragon?" Flaccus asked.

"Three miles off, closing rapidly, visible to the human eye as a little speck in the North East," the elf shouted, "and I did not inform you earlier because I could not believe its existence!"

"What colour?" Pulcher asked, somewhat pathetically, as the entire staff around him erupted into frenzied argument.

"Red," the elf said. "Why is that of significance to you, my dear fellow?"

"I have always had an interest in animals," Pulcher said, in a small voice. "I never did like them being killed."

The elf was silent, eyes probing him.

"But… I would like to see this one. I suspect that my wish will be granted." Pulcher sighed, and drew his gladius. Razor sharp, and most likely pointless against a dragon.

He could almost feel the frenzied, desperate shouting spreading onto the walls, as the speck was spotted, telescopes raised. The frantic queries, the weary confirmations as the runners they were sending out to Flaccus sprinted back, and the slowly spreading _panic_! For the Varden, this was their darkest nightmare, a creature of legend, sometimes their saviour, but now turned against them. Pulcher looked up, caught a glimpse of a little speck, flying against the wind, and felt some of what the other Romans felt. An old memory, of the great elephants of Hannibal crashing through every army in their path.

But more than that-relief. He would die seeing, not one dragons, but two!

"And Hannibal fell, Gnaeus Aurelius. Fell to the Roman Legions of Quintus Fabius Maximus Verrucosus Cunctator. But his main plan was to never fight him." Flaccus' face was grim. Looking now, Pulcher would see a certain cast to it: the sagging bags under his eyes, the mass of lines, and the dull, stone grey skin, covered in dirt. This was a man exhausted, he thought. Damnation.

"Imagifer!" Flaccus snapped his fingers, and the Imagifer, once attached to the First Cohort, now came running to his side. "On me! Staff, mount up. We have a battle to win, gentlemen! And men fight better, I think, under the eyes of their commanders. Tribune Dalmaticus-pick five riders, and fetch whatever men you can. The Circumvallation cannot be abandoned, but you may strip it to the bone." He clicked his tongue, and his horse went to the walk. "Tertius, stay here," he said without looking down.

"Master…" the slave began, sword gripped in his hand.

"Someone has to chronicle this, my man. That someone, I think, is to be you. You are of more use alive than you are dead."

"But…" they left Tertius standing there, sword dangling by his side, staring after them.

As the dragon closed, they could tell that the Imperial army was springing to life. Cheers were heard, trumpets sounded, and the damnable singing started up once more. Flaccus, annoyed, called up to an artillery tower. "How much ammunition?"

"Enough," the artillerymen called back. They were some Dragon's Wing crewmen, and had manned their piece with great enthusiasm throughout the day. "We hope."

And, as the dragon closed, its glittering, bejeweled underside gradually becoming distinguishable, its course becoming more apparent, the crossbowmen in the ditches became more daring. They cheered, the Black Hand chanted, and their bolts poured out. Two staff officers fell to the first volley, and Flaccus ordered the rest to muster soldiers, leaving himself, Pulcher and the Imagifer to ride alone.

"Dragon two thousand yards that way, sir!" a lookout called down, pointing. "Straight ahead!"

"My compliments to you!" Flaccus called back, tossing the man another coin. "So now, at least, we know where to fight."

"Indeed." Pulcher nodded, gulped.

"I apologise, Gnaeus Aurelius," Flaccus said after a moment.

"Apologise, sir?" Pulcher looked up, saw a man tumble off the battlements, a bolt through his visor.

"Apologise, yes. You are a Roman of Patrician family, and senatorial rank. It is your business to learn the Ways of War, and to fight the enemies of Rome, not to be transported to the wars of others." Flaccus gestured vaguely at the scene. "Or the deaths of others." A Casparius ran to help a wounded man, and was shot in the groin. His agonised yelp was perhaps the highest of all.

"It wasn't your fault…" Pulcher began.

"It feels it." And, by Hercules, Flaccus felt old. Fourty three years… A good life? He had so much more to do. "And all our men, all good men. Roman Citizens." They passed a fallen centurion, seven feet tall and lying face down with a bolt in his back. He was only identifiable by his cane; already his sword, helmet, medals and armour had been ripped away by scavenging camp followers. "They did not deserve to die here, either."

"Well… we have to liberate the Empire, I suppose," Pulcher said, in an attempt to cheer Flaccus up.

"What from?" Flaccus sighed. "What from?" He looked down at Bucephalus. There was a sudden buzzing of bolts, close by-and Pulcher saw Flaccus collapse, his horse squealing.

"No-" he averted his eyes, heard the Imagifer shouting, and then looked down to see Bucephalus flailing, a bolt in its side, and Flaccus kneeling by him, stroking it.

Flaccus looked at the bolt, and then into his horse's eyes. He drew his sword, found Bucephalus' jugular, tickled it behind the ears, and stabbed once.

"It is done," he said. Still, he knelt.

"Well-" Pulcher didn't quite know what to say. "It was good horse," he said after a bit. "Truly worthy of Alexander."

"You know how Alexander acquired Bucephalus?" Flaccus asked. Pulcher blinked. Everyone knew! "He saw him, a mad horse in his Father's stables."

"Sir!" the Imagifer roared, pointing. "With respect, we must-"

"Alexander saw the horse, and you know what he did? He tamed it! He spoke to it, and by the end of the afternoon the pair of them were riding together, Bucephalus as obedient as an old maid's gelding. Worth thirteen talents in gold, but together… they were priceless. Together, they conquered Empires, the fleetest steed the world has ever seen, and the most triumphant conqueror it has ever known." Flaccus' voice was quiet, a deadly monotone.

"Sir," Pulcher said. "They will be shooting again." This time, he had no clue of what to do.

"You know what my Bucephalus was worth? Do you? One talent, from a Syrian horse trader with a pot belly and a bristling moustache. He frittered it away on wine straight after, or so I gather. And what have we done together? We have failed, Gnaeus Aurelius! I have not conquered an Empire! I have formed an army, led a Legion-and failed! I have worked, gods know how I have worked-and failed! I have tried to be an Alexander, a Caesar, and I have… it was a vain…"

Pulcher suddenly noticed that his commander was sprawled on the ground, babbling and weeping. He stared around. A crash. "It's landed!" someone was shouting. "It's landed! Fire, damn you, fire!" A ballista groaned.

"Sir?" he muttered.

"Again! FIRE!" Another groan. And a sound, like a crack of thunder, of massive feet pounding.

Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher, looking at the mass of men running back and forth on the walls, felt quite alone.

"Sir!" the Imagifer thrust his banner aside, and shook his Legate. "Sir, get up!"

Another volley of crossbows, but the Imagifer took no notice, and neither did the comatose Legate. "Right, that's it. Avert your eyes, sir, this could get ugly." The Imagifer shook his officer again. "Legate! We fucking need an officer, and Pulcher, beg his pardon, is a little bastard! We can get another fucking filly later. Up!"

And, astonishingly, Flaccus sprang to his feet. "Thank you, Imagifer Marius. Forward, Gnaeus Aurelius! Forward!" And he began, not to walk, but to run, cane under his arm, shield in hand, Attic helmet plume bobbing, right at where the dragon was thought to be, the Imagifer at his heels. Xanthus had to be ridden at the trot to keep pace. "And you know what we shall do there, Gnaeus Aurelius?" Flaccus turned sharply, and Pulcher recoiled at the look. The eyes were fixed ahead, and it had an almost demonic energy etched into every line.

"Slay the dragon?"

"Exactly! We, sir, shall slay the dragon, and Mactator shall have done his duty. Do you know how, sir, we shall slay the dragon?"

"Well…" Pulcher didn't have time to think.

"You are expecting some great engine, perhaps spraying Greek Fire and poison arrows from a thousand Polyboli, with great blades being scythed out by levers?"

"Well, knowing Mactator… yes."

Flaccus grinned, still running. "You are wrong, Gnaeus Aurelius. Such a machine would be wholly too obvious."

The pounding of giant feet grew louder. "FIRE!" A Varden officer shouted. "Fire, fire, fire…"

"Pull back!" turning the bend, Pulcher could see men of all companies and ranks fleeing from the ramparts ahead. Some threw down weapons. "Pull back!" the officer shouted, waving his arms wildly.

"Where to?"

"Run!"

"You recall, perhaps, the purpose of the walls being so thick? To contain our baggage. But why, then, is so much of it strewn about in between the walls?" Flaccus slowed to a walk. "To conceal our device."

Above the thunder of the dragon's feet, Pulcher could hear the beating of drums, and the marching of boots, thousands of boots, from both sides in a crashing roar. "Wh-what is that?" he asked.

"Our device, sir, had to be simple, or else their magic users would easily detect it. It had to be…automatic, or else they would detect its operators. It had to be dragon proof also, which itself ruled out overt complexity. We knew that the dragon would most likely not land in between our walls, for fear of exposing its vulnerable belly to the arrows and bolts of every man in the army. And we knew that, from reading accounts of dragons in battle, including the great Shadeslayer himself, that they often attack on the ground."

The thunder was now deafening, men simply pouring off the wall section, hither and thither, practically stampeding away from the fight, banners marshalling them away. All save for the three Romans. "Soldiers of Rome! Men of the Varden! I command that you stand!" Flaccus ordered loudly. "In the name of the Trajanus Caesar. Stand! In the name of Nasuada. Stand! In the name of-"

And then the world went black.

Darkness.

Darkness…

Is this death?

Choking. No noise, just a strange ringing in his ears.

A man, struggling to his feet, choking himself, his helmet torn away.

The blackened remnants of a hundred yards of…wall. That was it. They were defending a wall.

Smoke, pouring into the sky, shrouding them.

The man dragging at his shoulders, shouting.

The faint voice. "Gnaeus Aurelius!"

That was his name. "Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher," he gasped, dragging himself up. "What the-"

"The beast took a breath!" Flaccus shouted, perhaps unaware himself that he was shouting. He pointed. Pulcher squinted, could see something looming in the darkness, something headed right at them towards the debris of the wall.

"Oh-edepol!" he said. There was nothing else to say.

"You will recall, perhaps," Flaccus said, rubbing his quiff back into shape, "that there was a complaint throughout the march that the stakes were too heavy? And that, despite our mass of them from Mactator's cohort, we still had to cut down trees for more?"

And then, at last, Pulcher's shock addled mind began to understand. He felt a smile tugging at his lips for a moment, but only a moment. "Poor dragon," he muttered, wanting to know its name.

But Flaccus was busy, turning to the Imagifer, finding him lying dead, a splinter lodged in his throat. He took up the image of Trajan himself, and turned to the men behind him. All were blasted off their feet by the dragon's breath, but were dragging themselves up. Pale, frightened men, with their darkest creature from hell before them.

He raised Trajan, and started to walk forward, eyes fixed on the beast in the smoke.

A man could be glimpsed, running, in full plate armour, gripping a massive sword in both hands.

Flaccus strode on regardless.

"Any moment now," he muttered as, for the briefest instant, he saw it.

The smoke parted, revealing a great, snarling beast of red. Horns everywhere, with black plates grinding together, making it look like some deathly carriage. A great mouth, full of yellowed teeth, and a lolling, wet tongue. As big as an elephant, at least, a tower of scales and metal.

And a low, sagging belly.

The complaint on the march out had been that the stakes were too heavy. For once, the grumblers were right.

These stakes were, although covered with wood, filled with the steel of the dwarves. These stakes were of the toughest metal in existence, proof against anything-rockfall, magic and, most importantly, fire. These stakes were razor sharp, hidden under the debris of a collapsed wall, chained together and dug deeply into the earth. These stakes had been emplaced when only the Aroughs magic users, tired from Drakenfarl and held off by the spellweavers of Du Vrangr Gata, could even have dreamed of finding them; had been emplaced in the dark, in the midst of all the usual toil of erecting siege works. And these stakes pointed right at its belly.

The man in the plate armour raised his sword high. "Thorn!" he said. "Thorn! Morzan and Thorn!" He charged, his dragon at his side, crashing through the debris.

The plan to kill it almost worked. Almost.

Had it not noticed the spike sticking out through a plank, it would never have even done the little leap it did; so, instead of the stake going through the skull lowered for a headbutt, the stakes instead slashed through its belly as it rose to avoid them. The dragon tried to fly, but the wall around it snagged at its wings.

And, as it reared back, the stakes tore great gouges in its underbelly. The chains screamed in torment, but they remained in place.

The man turned, saw his dragon with blood dripping from a belly practically slit open, with gore raining down, howling a strange, half voiced howl.

Please, Flaccus thought at he advanced, Trajan raised and spatha drawn. Go. He stumbled on a metal peg, but kept upright, the beast's shadow looming over him. Just go.

The man in armour turned to face him. A passionless mask of a visor. The sword clanked up.

Go…

The dragon turned, and began to drag itself away on all fours.

The man may have said something, but was drowned out by a cacophony of noise. The beast's roars. Cheers. Groans.

"Surrender, sir," Flaccus said, walking forward. If he turned his head, he knew he could not see if anyone was following him. If not, he knew he was dead.

"Surrender!"

"Do you know," the man said. "I do not wish to." He raised his sword high. "Thorn!" he roared, and charged right at Flaccus.

"For the XXIII Adiutrix," Flaccus hissed, raising his spatha, setting his feet, and jamming the standard's haft into the ground.

The first blow almost knocked him sprawling. The second was impossibly quick, impossibly strong, and he only caught it on the hilt of his sword. Flaccus made a thrust at him, seeing an opening, but it scraped off his armour. He gritted his teeth, and tried another blow, and another. Both were effortlessly parried, and a counter blow almost knocked him off his feet, buckling his armour where it struck. He suppressed his cry of pain; but he knew that it had broken something in him.

This man, he realized, was an order of magnitude better than anyone he had ever fought. Than any Roman had ever fought.

Where were his men?

He raised his sword and lunged, a wild lunge, but the man, with no apparent effort, parried. The spatha snapped, so he flung the useless chunk of metal aside, and took the standard in both hands. "For Trajan!" he panted, flailing out like it was a club. The Emperor's face crashed into the man's side, knocking him back.

"That, I did not expect," the man admitted. He raised his sword again. "I shall be forced to use magic next time," he added, smugly.

Ye Gods, Flaccus thought. Ye Gods.

"You see," the man said, lunging with his sword and forcing Flaccus to frantically backpedal, trying to hold the heavy standard aloft, "I do not take kindly to people attacking my dragon. Murtagh Morzansson never has, and never does."

"Nothing else to thrust you pipinna in, then," Flaccus sneered.

"I have nothing else," Murtagh said simply, "in the entire world. Nothing of any value to anyone. Just my dragon," and he struck out in a series of hard, fast blows that forced Flaccus back further, "and my sword."

"You poor man," Flaccus said. He thrusted the haft of the banner at Murtagh, but he dodged effortlessly. "I have my family." _The Publius Cassi. My ancestors. _"My country." _My dignitas._ "My men." _My eagle._

"They have deserted you." Murtagh raised his hand. "I will now cast one of the twelve words of death," he said. He flung up his visor, to reveal a pale face, but utterly contorted with hate. "Die."

"Milites!"

"They came," Flaccus said. "They came, you see." He felt, above all, triumphant. "Your's did not. You fight for yourself, your own bloodlust. When Rufus sees a dragon run, he will no doubt run himself. So kill me, then. Stave off your defeat, if you wish."

"Ready your pila!"

Murtagh struggled, swung down his visor.

A voice sang something in the ancient language, and something shot out of the smoke. "He cannot," the voice said.

"Blohdgarm," Flaccus muttered.

"Just so. I cannot hold him for long." Flaccus could see nothing of the elf's face, but could see the strain in its posture.

He raised his banner. The bronze face of Trajan glared at the iron face of Murtagh. "Milites!" the officer ordered. "Ready your pila!"

"My congratulations to you, Gnaeus Aurelius," Flaccus said. "How many?"

"Milites! Cast your pila!" Flaccus threw himself flat, and heard the volley slash over his head. He heard the clang of metal, could imagine Murtagh being hurled to the ground by its force.

Steel rasped out of scabbards. "Forward!"

"For Carvahall!"

"Vrael! Nasuada and Vrael!"

And, with a mass of battlecries, the allies charged into the smoke. Flaccus dragged himself up just in time to see Murtagh, visor down, meeting them head on.

A mass of men swarmed into the lone, armoured figure. Carvahall militiamen stabbed with their spears, Varden footmen hacked with axe and mace, and the Legionaries stabbed in with the gladius, battering with their shields. But Murtagh met them all. Flaccus, holding the standard high, could see Jeod stabbing with the rapier, before being swatted aside by one blow of an armoured gauntlet, and watched as the man, flailing like a puppet, was knocked into the smoke and out of sight. Could see Roran hammering at his armour repeatedly, and a legionary being chopped in half by the sword. "Just one of him," he muttered amazed, "and hundreds of us!"

"No, human," Blohdgarm muttered. "There are hundreds of tired human troops, and one man in plate, with the strength of the dragons in his veins."

"I ask of you again, Murtagh. Surrender!" But Murtagh could not hear above the clang of weapons, so he continued to fight on, step by step back, slashing at the mass before him, taking blows on plate and thin air.

Flaccus called for crossbows, for archers, for anything; but his men paid him no heed. They had seen his dragon come, fled before it, seen their walls fall, and now they wanted their vengeance. So they continued to throw themselves onto his blade.

Flaccus watched, and waited. Let him stumble! Let someone get around him! But, no. As the smoke cleared, he could see the Imperial army drawing back to its original lines, but Murtagh fought on alone.

And on, and on…

Only when night fell did he retire, at long last. At long last, the allies had pulled back, exhausted, but bloodlust sated without, apart from the initial volley of pila, putting a scratch on him.

Only then did Flaccus allow himself to collapse into sleep.

What they found later, however, was that Sir Leon had came. He had mustered his Horse together when the dragon had swept in, and attempted a charge at the rear of the Imperial army. It would have worked superbly-but the Empire had ordered regiments to guard their rear. Regiments of pikemen, professionals, who did not run at the sight of a charging foe, but instead formed squares that spat crossbow bolts and defiance. So the Horse Guards had dashed themselves to bloody ruin, losing two hundred men, before dispersing into the countryside.

But that mess, at least, would have to be cleared up later.

* * *

"The Flavian": The Flavian Amphitheatre, or Colosseum, was apparently capable of seating 50,000 people.

Varden Hymns: One of the greatest omissions Paolini has made is providing humanity with any sort of religion to speak of apart from a cult of butchery worshipped by a few psychotics. (Especially when several characters occasionally mention Gods, customs, and even a "Monk".) The humble fanfictioneer, therefore, must occasionally step in. (That said, it is worth nothing that after thousands of years of losing records to the ravages of time, and taking into account many of the records being more than a little biased, we still know more about Roman slang, religion, pastimes, and everything that isn't a Great Historical Event, than we do about their equivalents in Alagaesia.)

Ox sinew and womens' hair: These were the materials used to construct the strings for artillery, being the best substances for it in the Ancient world. Sadly for animal rights groups and feminists alike, modern replicas seem to lack the same punch.

of hands promising loyalty, and Trajan glaring, and the lionskins of the bearers:The symbol at the top of the "Signum" (Century's standard) was a hand raised in oath of loyalty. Trajan glaring is the Imago borne by the Imagifer. And the standard bearers wore a variety of animal skins, the heads over their helmets.

Polyboli: Repeating Ballistas.


	10. II: Fall

Once again, author's notes.

There will be a renewed rate of progress, for a time at least, because I have the short term plot after this mapped out pretty well, and no exams to worry about.

A few apologies: firstly, contrary to what I assured my readers in previous chapters, the final lines of _Lysistrata _do not mention a "heroic Zeus born maid" anywhere. However, as I have had to hand my copy of Lysistrata back to the school library (now sadly out of reach due to the holiday season), the actual last lines are not available to me. Forgive me, or at least forgive the awful translation Pulcher got his hands on. Secondly, the ending to the last chapter was, in my view, somewhat rushed. I apologise. This is because it was getting late, and I really wanted to get it uploaded ASAP, as the attempted relief of Aroughs had been flailing about for far too long already. Some day, when I finally reach the end of this, I may go over the story and redo all the typos, rejig all translations, undo all historical and canonical errors, and rewrite certain scenes (the opening, for example) to make them more punchy.

Finally, about the method with which the dragon was dealt with. I would love to say that it was after a prolonged period of constant thought, consulting every history that came to hand; but actually, it came to me in a break between revision sessions when flicking through "Fortune's Favourites" by Colleen (here goes!) Mccullough. (Coincidentally, to all Romanophiles out there, I would thoroughly recommend the Masters of Rome series. The writing is pretty good, and they have tonnes of good research and bits of miscellanea jammed into them.) In anticipation of many, many outraged fans sending PMs about how their dearest Murty would never be so foolish, I may as well reiterate, and add on, reasons just why the Romans could pull this off.

-Roman skill at engineering is considered to be impressive even by modern standards, including in the military department. Indeed, hidden defensive stakes had been previously used by the Romans to crush chariot attacks (in the Wars against Mithradates), and Flaccus is well read in this sort of area.

-Romans were also generally extremely competent at adapting weaponry to fight new enemies. Their swords came from the Spanish, their helmets were reinforced to take on Dacian falxes, and so on. Because of this, it is likely that they would rapidly start planning methods to take on a dragon, using whatever materials came to hand, rather than doing the caricatured medieval reaction of declaring it as an unnatural devil (this, I must point out, is only a caricature of medieval thought, but a common one, and not without some basis) and reaching for their Bibles and burning stakes.

-Throughout the books, it is true that Eragon-the only representative we have of dragon combat-has been known to fly Saphira around quite a lot, including over the fortifications at Feinster. However, these are tall, stone walls, manned by a fairly well rested force. (In contrast, Murtagh is a relatively inexperienced rider, the walls are low, wooden ones, and are manned by an army that has been attacked throughout the day.) Once behind these, he mostly fights on foot. Similarly at Farthen Dur, Eragon flies around, shoots a few arrows, and fights on foot. And at the Burning Plains, apart from when he takes a breather or sees another airborne opponent coming, Eragon and Saphira fight on foot, negating any advantage of mobility they may have. Thus, whatever the actual practicality, military sense, or even sanity behind it, Alagaesian dragon riders more often than not fight on foot.

-Possessing a dragon probably lends itself to a certain level of arrogance, and Murtagh has been shown to possess a pretty considerable ego before now.

-Murtagh knows his enemy has a few crossbows, many skilled archers, and a great deal of artillery pieces with a functioning magic defence, which he does not want to expose Thorn's underbelly to. (Notice that Saphira's dragon armour only covers the top, scaled part of her body, not the armpits or vulnerable underbelly.) He also knows, looking down, that the walls are too close together for a landing to reliably succeed, and are filled with all sorts of obstacles-barrels, boxes, tents, armed soldiers, etc. Thus, an air attack is out of the question. In contrast, the ground outside the walls is comparatively clear, with corpses and only a few spike filled ditches. Perhaps intentionally, the Romans could have used their enormous arsenal of tricks to make these far more lethal. They could have covered the ground with caltrops, diverted the sea into the ditches to fill them up, or even set Goge and co to work on some arcane magical traps. Open ground, therefore, is far more palatable than inside the walls.

-He may wish the troops behind him to support him once on the ground. This is difficult to obtain is there is a burning wall between him and the soldiers, but easier to obtain if he is at the head of a column of them, providing them with the great morale booster that is a fire breathing dragon straight out of myth and legend.

Another note: some readers may have logged in and found that Chapter 9 had Sir Leon losing 500 men in the charge. I have amended this figure to 200 men, which is not only more plausible (he wouldn't have got his entire command, himself included, wiped out in one cavalry charge, no matter how headstrong he is), but also leaves them in the story. As my named characters have a surprisingly short life expectancy, I have to ration their deaths carefully.

Now, prolonged self justification over-to the story!

* * *

"_They exterminate every form of life they encounter, sparing nothing, but do not start pillaging until they get the order. When the Romans have taken a city, as well as human corpses you will see dogs cut in half and dismembered parts of other animals." Polybius. _Histories 10.15

It was a dull wet day in autumn, but the sun still shone where Saphira flew.

Flaccus, chest wrapped in bandages, had joined the crowds of soldiers on the battlements to watch the retreat of the Imperial army, and the arrival of their salvation. The day after the battle, they had received the message that Shadeslayer, having heard of their plight, was immediately en route to their position. This, of course, had sent the army into an excited flurry of activity. Dents were bashed out of helmets and shields, plumes were hastily rebuilt, standards and armour polished, and there was a brief, terrified debate as to whether Varden flags should be left ripped after the battle (to demonstrate how hard they had been fighting), or stitched back together (for parade ground neatness.) In the end, the issue was decided by the sighting of an expanding black speck in the sky in mid afternoon.

"It is true, then."

Flaccus glanced down, to see General Caastenburgh at his side. The Imperial General, who had commanded the defence of Aroughs with such skill, now looked tired. The sling for his single arm was grey with dirt, and his face, crossed with scars, was even more downcast. The scarlet uniform coat that hung off his almost skeletal frame was patched, the epaulettes shredded, and the scabbard at his side was quite empty; he had surrendered the city, and therefore his sword. "What is?" Flaccus asked.

"You have a rider. The Shadeslayer." Caastenburgh smiled wryly. "We didn't believe a word of it."

Awkwardly, Flaccus offered his hand. "The fortunes of war are treacherous," he said.

Caastenburgh did not shake it. "My family would agree," he said.

"Your ancestors?"

"No. My wife, my three sons, their two wives. Once I had five sons, with five wives. But the food ran out." Caastenburgh stared out over the plains. At the red standards, with their twisting flames and regimental numbers so proud, retreating into the distance. At the burning, gutted remains of the handful of crossbowmen who had tried to fight, not knowing the power of the Rider's wards.

"Your men fought well," Flaccus said.

"But not enough. If we had just… well, it is too late now. I salute your gallant victory, Legate." Lacking his sword, Caastenburgh instead saluted with his hand. "I also applaud the lenient terms of surrender from your fellow commanders."

Flaccus didn't. He had wanted to raze the city to the ground, to kill its inhabitants, and only to leave the docks intact for purposes of supply. That was the best and only way to terrify the citizens of the Empire into submission, in his view. But, of course, Gydrynne had spoken against it, and as she was in command of the majority of the army, she had got her way. What nonsense was this? Leave the citizens, militia and civilian alike, unharmed, put thieves before court martial? What other reward can a soldier get for capturing a city, at great personal risk, than the jewels of that city! But it would not be polite to say so, so he just nodded, offered the General tobacco (who enthusiastically accepted), and turned to see Aroughs' surrender.

The militia was marching out in columns, piling up their weapons and banners, before turning to the grave digging parties, where piles of spades awaited them. They were escorted by Varden troops, but were not being treated poorly; they had offered a gallant resistance, albeit a futile one. They were even being fed.

As for the rest of the city… no word had come. Flaccus had sent in Tertius along with a company of Varden footmen and Tenor Skeate to assess the damage: what required repair, and what could be requisitioned for the Varden. But, looking at Aroughs' empty walls, listening to the utter silence from within, Flaccus couldn't imagine there being much left. No dogs, no rats. People, certainly. How many? He could not say. But, looking at the starved, stretched faces of the militia, noticing how Caastenburgh's coat had obviously been made for a far fatter man, he doubted it was very many.

"And where," Skeate asked, "is the Black Hand?"

Tertius, swaddled in his cloak, looked down at his tablet.

-Timber-useful, unmeasured.

-Stone-potentially useful, unmeasured.

-Glass-mostly broken. Useless.

-Telescopes-6 discovered thus far. Useful.

-Food…

He gazed around. The street the Varden had stopped in was once, incredibly, in Aroughs' merchant quarter, with the Argard looming above. Once, he reckoned, those markets must have been open, their awnings unfurled, the goods of the world on sale. But now, of course, times had changed. Once, there were jewels, lapdogs and sweetmeats. Now, there were chipped stone walls, the skeletons of Gods knew what creatures littering the ground, and hungry faces occasionally glimpsed peering out of windows. Occasionally, voices could be heard. Shouting, arguments. Probably over some scrap of some rotten vegetable. Once, in Rome during the Games, Tertius had seen an old slave woman hacking at what he took to be a loaf. She looked up, smiled toothlessly-and Tertius realized that it was not a loaf, but elephant dung from one of the acts, and she was looking for extra grains.

He shivered.

"Go on then," Skeate said, putting a reassuring hand on their guide's shoulder. "Where is the Black Hand?"

Their guide was a merchant's wife who answered to the name of Bohemonda. She was thin, painfully so, and even more painfully young. But most painful of all, in Skeate's eyes at least, was her ignorance. "They come and go in the dark," she said hesitantly. "That… that is all."

Skeate rummaged through his robes, and pulled out an apple. "I was reserving this for my lunch," he said in a voice that attempted to sound gruff, before handing it over to her. She wolfed it down eagerly. "Now, are you sure that you know nothing?"

Her head flicked up, eyes dancing. "Food…" she muttered.

From another pocket of his robes, Skeate tossed her a chunk of cheese. "You're safe here, alright? No black bastards can get past us." Tertius put his hand on the hilt of his gladius, and failed to look heroic. The Varden footmen looked far more reassuring, in their purple and mail, and with their multitude of weapons glinting dully in the weak morning sun. "You're safe, you've got my lunch, we can get a fire if you need it, and you can start talking!"

The cheese was merely nibbled on; obviously she had someone to feed. "They came at night, mostly," she said. "Until the siege. Then they were there on the walls. Now, who knows?" She shrugged her thin shoulders, little ridges under her dress. "But they were never the type to surrender in the open. They prefer skulking and running when the enemy is awake and has a sword."

"They were brave yesterday, mistress," Tertius said before he could stop himself.

Skeate shot a glare at him. "No 'Master' and 'Mistress' and 'Milords and ladies' in the Varden, see," he had told Tertius as soon as they marched out of camp. "We're free men, free women, free dragons, free elves, free everyone, and the lads don't want to be reminded that a bunch of slavers are helping us!" So Tertius had tried, but not very hard, to speak like a freedman. It was a strange experience, and he supposed that he should be somehow honoured to be donning the Pilos for a few moments. But, really, he had thought through what he would do in the unlikely event of Flaccus letting him go for far too long to play act his way to it for a couple of damp, grey skied hours. He had two choices: become a freedman clerk to someone else, or the old, vague dream of retiring to a farm somewhere a long way away from anyone, or anything, involving swords or Senators, and live out the rest of his days farming, writing, and trying to get a family of some description. But those dreams, no matter how golden the apples, or glorious the sunset from his imagined porch, were just dreams. Nice ones, though.

"Trapped animals," she replied.

"Aye," Skeate said, "but strong ones with lots of teeth, and we need their lair, and I'm out of spare vittles."

Tertius, out of habit, was putting their conversation into shorthand. He knew that he would not be noticed, for he was wearing a document case over his shoulder. That, of course, marked him out as an anonymous flunky, a bureaucrat of no importance, to be ignored at leisure. Flaccus knew that, and used it well.

"They always-appear, in the street, flow to wherever they are needed, and disappear when done. We cannot know."

Tertius rolled his eyes. A Varden trooper yawned. He smiled, and, as his eye travelled up the stretching arm, noticed something.

"You can't know _nothing_! Any rumours? Anything?" Skeate frowned in irritation. This questioning was giving him a headache.

Bohemonda shook her head, tentatively. Someone moaned a desperate, keening wail. In the middle of the street, a dragon mounted statue looked on impassively, sword aloft.

"The Argard," Tertius said.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes." And gazed at the great, towering keep. The gargoyles stared back.

Tertius, an imaginative man, could have sworn that he saw one blink…

Saphira landed in a space of mud which had been previously occupied by fourty eight crates of dried meat; these were now being used to fill the breach caused by Thorn's breath, and would most likely be her lunch.

To the uproarious cheers of the surrounding soldiers, her rider dismounted in one bound, splashing into the mud, skidding, falling, but steadying himself immediately with a snap of his fingers and a word of his magic.

To many cheers, oaths of fealty, and salutes, which only intensified as he removed his helmet, he rapidly exchanged a series of words and gestures with Blohdgarm, somewhat awkwardly kissed Gydrynne's hand (obviously, in Flaccus' view, having never done such a thing before), and proceeded along the line formed of the army's commanders, their staff, and their bravest, shiniest looking soldiers.

"Now, recap, Gnaeus Aurelius," Flaccus muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "What do you say to him?"

"I don't expose myself. I don't make Trajan's Salute. I accept his handshake, and answer his questions with the greatest of enthusiasm."

"No, you do so with the greatest of economy of effort; but otherwise perfect." Flaccus, quiff hidden by his Attic helmet, fretfully tugged at the plume, and checked his borrowed sword hilt for rust. "Here he comes!"

Lieutenant Claye finished apologizing to the great Shadeslayer that no, Choirmaster Goge could not make it, and neither could his magic users-"Busy, sir, very busy" (to which Shadeslayer nodded soberly), and the Shadeslayer, with Blohdgarm and Gydrynne at his side, marched purposefully to the Romans' position. Behind them, Trajan's standard stared down, borne aloft by the tallest Legionary to be found.

"The Legate, Publius Cassius Flaccus; his second in command, Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher. A very interesting actor." Blohdgarm was clearly relishing his role as herald.

"Honoured," Shadeslayer said, offering his mail gloved hand. "Honoured-an actor?"

Flaccus, promising to personally decimate every last whisker of that wretched cat-thing the moment he got the chance, shook Shadeslayer's hand with the most cheerful of smiles. "We meet again," he said.

"We do? Oh, yes," Shadeslayer said (a flicker of Blohdgarm's finger-magically jogging his memory, perhaps?). "After Farthen Dur. You had just escaped from that tunnel."

"And you, I think, were in a state of ill health."

Shadeslayer nodded. "The Elves changed me," he said.

"That," Flaccus replied, "is obvious." They had, into one of their own-quite different to the pale adolescent who strained to rise and greet them all those months ago. "For the better, I trust."

Shadeslayer nodded fervently, and moved on to Pulcher. "Acting?" he asked, elegant eyebrow arched.

"Yes," Pulcher replied, having brazened his way out of worse confessions before. "I got some fellows together, and we performed a play. Lysistrata, by Aristophanes-you haven't heard of it? A shame! Sounds magnificent in the original Greek, let me tell you."

"I'm sure it does," Shadeslayer said. "I prefer poetry, myself. I have even written one."

"Indeed he has," Blohdgarm cut in smoothly. "It was a fascinating experience, and I will watch his career as a poet with bated breath!"

Shadeslayer, entirely without suspicion, smiled, shook hands again, and that was it; he moved on to Roran, whose response, as it involved striking his cousin hard in the face (and his being restrained by Captain Uthar) before embracing him, was far more memorable.

General Caastenbergh, a few officers around him, only received a curt nod; the enemy was beneath the Shadeslayer's attention.

After this, they went to lunch. The mess, with its wobbly table leg and lack of chairs, was somehow transformed into a round table, with the banners of regiments (Varden and captured Imperial, but not Roman, strangely) fluttering in the damp wind dug into the ground surrounding it. Flaccus looked at the banners almost hungrily, thinking of the Aquila; and then the call was made for them to be seated: Shadeslayer, Caastenbergh, Gydrynne, Claye, Flaccus, Pulcher, Blohdgarm, Roran and (improbably) Saphira, with a barrel of precious wine, and a great deal of meat, forming a sardonic blue mountain nearby. Sir Leon, still missing, was conspicuous in his absence.

The usual toasts were made: to Nasuada, the Varden, Vrael, the Elves, and (with much explanatory whispering from Gydrynne) Trajanus Caesar, Optimus Maximus. Then the meal began properly. To the horror of the chefs, Shadeslayer refused all offers of meat; out of solidarity, the rest of the Varden joined with him, leaving an excellent joint of pork to go to waste.

"Excellent!" said Flaccus. "We Romans are a strange people, Shadeslayer; poor seafarers, but excellent fish eaters!" He knew that Immunis Strabo, along with a number of others, had been preparing a fish course, so he snapped his fingers and ordered that to be brought forward instead.

This, too, was rejected. "I am against the consumption of animal flesh," Shadeslayer said.

"Very… virtuous of you, Shadeslayer," Flaccus said, remembering a fragment of Pythagoras, and resigning himself to a meal that, in terms of food, was to be quite miserable.

There was then a lengthy discussion between Shadeslayer (now "Eragon", as his cousin was less formal) and Roran about their adventures. Flaccus, munching on his carrots (discreetly sprinkled with garum) looked on enviously as Caastenbergh tucked into every scrap of pork available, greedily gulped at wine, and put up a gallant defence of the Imperial army. "Conscripts, you see. Conscripts!" he said, laughing, when Roran was describing the defence of Carvahall. "Farm boys plucked from their homes don't all get legendary creatures to ass…ass… help them." Gloriously drunk, pink cheeked and far fuller than before, he bowed to Saphira, who bent her leg in response. "They just get a pike and a sack of straw to poke at. Don't fight so well."

_Top secret information! Eragon, we must report this to Nasuada; this valuable insight into the Empire's secret training plans could win us the war!_

"Whoops!" At that point, Caastenbergh seemed to realize how far gone he was, and clamped his hand on his mouth. "Silly me." He said little for the rest of the meal.

After the last dragon flight was discussed, Eragon looked up. "What of your battle here?" he asked eagerly. "It sounded like a great stand!"

"The enemy were met," said Pulcher, "and his city is our's." He gestured at the walls. "Our casualties are uncounted, but are estimated to be in the thousands."

"The dragon! How was it slain?"

"It tripped," said Pulcher. His face was pale, grim, and his eyes were trying to forget.

"We set up an ambush for it," Flaccus explained. "A series of spikes, under our walls. The dragon burned through the walls, but dashed itself to pieces on the spikes. Sadly, though, it is not slain. Its name is Thorn, its rider's is Murtagh, and I have a mind to crucify the pair of them."

"Murtagh?"

"Indeed."

"I knew a Murtagh," Eragon said, fists clenching.

"There are doubtless many Murtaghs," Gydrynne said, but she looked worried.

"I have missed something, I fear," Flaccus said. He almost summoned Tertius for dictation, before remembering that he was not at hand. "Who is Murtagh?"

They explained.

"Ah." Crucifixion, for sure. Had to be, if one was to teach the sons of the Forsworn not to rebel. "An unpleasant character."

"Not the one I knew," Eragon said.

"But an enemy to be killed, I think."

"By what? By… crucifixion, whatever that is?" Eragon leaned across the table, as Caastenbergh passed out.

Flaccus told him, in no uncertain terms, exactly what a crucifixion involved. "And we must not allow anyone help him, no. An officer on my staff had a great uncle who served in Judea, and told of how some rabble rousing Jew was administered drugs to fake his passing, and he was out preaching again three days later. We must be harsh."

Eragon opined that crucifixion was not a good plan, as he saw it, and he then moved on to the battle when he arrived. His account involved a great deal of dragons swooping down and burning soldiers to death en masse, which didn't suit Claye at all.

"If I may say so, sir, it was a risk too much. One crossbow bolt in the right place could have ended you and the entire Varden, and would have left the Imperial army facing us once more." He looked at his boots. "At least, I thought so."

"No," said Flaccus, "there is little risk of that."

"Of course not! The Elves have given me great power."

"Indeed." Blohdgarm nodded. "As much as one of our own kin."

"Yes…" Flaccus smiled. "And the Imperial Army, I feel, will start to suffer from its own lack of supplies. They have marched into an area whose harvest we have stripped and eaten ourselves, which lengthens their supply lines greatly. They cannot take the walls of Aroughs, once we occupy them, without massive quantities of siege equipment, and we only have to hold out until winter; a siege cannot be conducted through a cold winter. At present, they have to cart their supplies in convoys which, if I may make a suggestion to Eragon, are going to be vulnerable to a dragon, as well as to whatever men Sir Leon has left, without thousands of men guarding them. These are not available, due to the assault the Empire intends to make on the Varden's main army. So they will have to retreat."

There was a brief silence. _My rider was just thinking that, wasn't he? This pork is _excellent! Saphira intoned cheerily.

"The cooks will be honoured." Gydrynne discreetly signaled for the subtleties: in this case, a blue jelly shaped into a dragon, a rather insignificant looking knight of icing on top.

"Their wine suppliers especially," Eragon agreed, reaching for his spoon.

"The Argard." Skeate stuck his thumbs in his belt and whistled. "Mayor's place. Bloody hell!"

The company now stood in the square outside it, weapons drawn; and Tertius could only agree with Skeate. He had been around Mactator, may his shade rest easy, and Flaccus for long enough to know when a building was difficult to storm; and the Argard Keep, with its massively tall stone walls, seemed impenetrable. Worse, it was in the middle of a great plaza, with only a handful of statues offering any cover from arrow, ballista bolt, or worse. But he was a Greek, an Athenian, with all their famed way with words, so he said flippantly: "We could always knock."

"Yes! Knock! Against a fortified building held by a bunch of magic toting fanatics-speaking of which, where's that mind in the tower?" Skeate spat on the ground. "Bastards."

"They must have all been killed," a Sergeant suggested mildly. He adjusted his spectacles. "Along with so many other poor sods yesterday."

"This is the Imperial Secret Service, not some ancient order of dragon riders. They'll fight, but they'll have a good bolt hole." Skeate drew his sword, and made his mind ready for magic. "Right, Sergeant Hoxton. Since you're so talkative, I order you to lead a scouting party."

"Right." Hoxton hefted his halberd. "Corporal Barebones, I want your section at my back for this one. Get to that statue there, the one with the equestrian who looks like he's wanking off, and we have a good look round." It raised a few laughs, as he had hoped. "Shields up, gents. Forward!"

So, with the greatest valour, the Varden charged, weapons drawn, shields held high, roaring in defiance against the great, dark tower. Bohemonda had her eyes tightly shut, and Tertius joined with the cheers of the men as they urged them on.

Nothing happened. They reached the statue, and crouched low behind it. One of them pulled out a telescope, and another raised his hand, waggled his fingers.

Tertius could never understand the Varden signaling, so was surprised when Skeate led them rest of them forward. "It says _all clear_," Skeate muttered. "And it damn well looks it."

The hand gripping his tablet was shaking; but he had never learned to control it. He was a secretary, not a soldier! Of course he would be scared, even with a hundred soldiers and a magic user at his side. So, whereas the others marched, he merely crept along, the gargoyles glaring and soldiers sniggering at his obvious fear. "Well," he murmured to himself in Greek, "at least I'm honest with myself." The laughter of the soldiers was a bit too loud to be genuine.

When they reached the statue, with all of them struggling to hide behind it, the soldier with the telescope glanced around. "There's a wooden door," he said rapidly. Tertius instinctively started writing it down, feeling good to be doing something. "Looks thick. Studded. The only entrance. A few windows, no arrow slits we can see."

"Warded?" Skeate asked.

"Can't say. Guardsman Hotchkiss! Ready your bow! On my order, loose your bow at that door!" The man stared intently down his telescope. "Fire!"

The arrow buzzed out. "Stuck clean in," the soldier said with relish.

"Unwarded." Skeate rubbed his hands. "We need a ram or summat."

"Can't you use your magic?" Tertius asked.

"I could, but if they're in there, they'll grab my mind by its bloody balls and get out a great big rusty mental knife to cut them off. No, conventional methods are the best. Sergeant Hoxton, get your section searching!"

"I suppose," Tertius said after a moment or two of watching Hoxton's men kicking in doors among the city's finest shops to scavenge wood, "that breaking through a window is not out of the question."

"No," said Skeate after a moment of thought. "It isn't. And that window looks bloody low, so lets get to work!"

A deceptively short man-so short, in fact, that he had to stand on Hoxton's shoulders while he worked- called Guardsman Oxingford was ordered to break it with his hammer. This took little time, but each blow shattered the glass with a sound that set Tertius' teeth on edge. When it was broken, the footmen clambered in, weapons drawn, and Tertius among them.

The room was obviously a sitting room, with armchairs, an empty fire place, and a portrait of a sailing boat. Nothing suggesting the presence of the Black Hand; but it was the mayor's house, above all else. Presumably they were only hiding.

"But in that case," Skeate said, "where's the mayor?"

And then the shutters slammed shut. Darkness fell.

"Keep them open, I want a good exit," someone shouted.

All around, steel was being drawn. "Brisingr!" Skeate growled, and a fire burst out above his hand, filling the room with a strange, purple light. "Right! Guardsman Oxingford, knock those bloody shutters open. Sergeant Hoxton! Take your section, scavenge for torches."

They set to work. One was soon improvised with an axe handle and a bundle of stuffing from a sofa being ignited by Skeate; and a few candles were produced out of packs. "Right. Oxingford! The shutters!"

"They won't open."

"They won't open? This isn't a fucking potter's, man, hit it harder! Hit it-" Skeate froze.

Tertius, with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, realized he had drawn his sword. It didn't make him feel any better. "What is it?" he asked, dreading the response.

"That Mind's back. I can feel it. And we must stop it." Skeate gripped the hilt of his sword with white knuckled hands? "Where's Bohemonda?"

"Someone must have ordered her out…" Tertius began; he could not see her. Not difficult, with the shadows dancing around, and the candles guttering away.

"Lads. Lads!" Skeate spoke swiftly. "I want two assault parties. Four sections climb the tower, scour every room, kill anyone who even looks like they're using magic, alright? The other four search the cellars. Wine cellars, dungeons, whatever. Do the same. Work! I've got a magic user to hold off!"

At the mention of a magic user, the men immediately allocated themselves into the parties, readied their weapons, and set forth.

"Why do you build your houses so tall?" Tertius asked, but Skeate wasn't in the mood. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, his breathing was rapid, and he was sweating heavily. Tertius didn't know what he was thinking, and nor did he want to. He instead slumped into one of the sofas, and pulled out his tablet.

Nothing to write! He could dash out some dramatic message, but what would be the point? No one would read it! Every bit of poetry had been scraped from his mind by the possibility of him getting killed by magic, Gods know how. Would he die with dignity? He couldn't say, but he doubted it.

_No._

"Did you hear anything?" Tertius asked, but there was no one to answer him.

His ears were drinking the sounds in. Every creak in the building, every footstep, every other noise, all caused him to jump, twitch. And there was a smell in the air, too, only now beginning to grow on him. The stench of something foul. Corpses…

_Not corpses. They still live._

"What?"

The voice repeated itself.

"Who is this?"

_They still live, for now. But not much longer._

"Right." Tertius feverishly started scribbling this in his tablet. "What is down there?" he tried.

_Why not? People are down there, beneath the tower._

"People? What sort of people? Men? Pygmies? Elves?"

_People who are about to die._

"And what is up there?" Tertius asked desperately.

_The Mind in the Tower._

"Anything else?"

_You will find it. Unopposed._

"Find what?"

The voice repeated itself. But the tone was now recognizable.

"Bohemonda?" Tertius guessed.

_You believe so._

"But…" Tertius ran to the shutters, and started pounding at them. "Let us out!" Boots pounded up from the cellars, down from the tower. "Let us out!"

"Sir!" both soldiers crashed into the room, saluted. "Sir!" Both of their faces were pale. "Sir!"

Skeate stared ahead, eyes fixed on the opposite walls.

Almost as if they were dead.

_Remember those captives we took? Normally, they would have been paraded around the battlements to enrage you, but they were not. The Black Hand seized people, you see, and brought them into the cellars. You may remember, perhaps, a patrol of cavalry that your men encountered…_

"You-you first," Tertius said, struggling against his own rising gorge, pointing at the man from the cellars.

"Full of people! Hundreds, thousands, wallowing in their own filth! Trapped! I gave 'em my waterskin, but…" The man, with a strange sigh, vomited over his boots. "Chained up," he finished hoarsely.

"And you?" Tertius said, before vomting himself.

"I was here," the man muttered, "for Tenor Skeate. We needed him. And…" he checked his pulse. "He's dead."

"Well…" Tertius was lost. "Can't we get out of here?"

"I've ordered a section to the door, but we can't break it open. Just like the shutters…"

All three of them started shouting at once. They could get through the walls, off the roof somehow, tunnel through the cellars, there must be a sewer somewhere, and all the while the stench grew, and Skeate gently collapsed to the floor.

_The Mind in the Tower is Ready_, the voice said.

"But…" Tertius searched for something to say. "That means death?"

_Yes._

"But… we fed you! We gave you food! Doesn't that merit you letting us out or something? Or were you faking your hunger too!"

_I was hungry. I wish for no more_ _of our cities to suffer as Aroughs has. Farwell._

"We could…" a soldier said.

And no one knew what his suggestion would be, for the Mind in the Tower decided to use his spell.

The spell was simple enough: one of transportation. It is simple, but it requires immense amounts of energy; far beyond that, considering the distances intended, possessed by a human magic user.

So the spellweavers of the Black Hand had to improvise; and they did so with relish. The Empire, they knew, lacked the immeasurable expertise of the Elves, but it had one key ingredient: manpower. So they could enlist the assistance of other human bodies also, to provide energy.

For how long they had built up their stocks in Aroughs, none could say. Perhaps, when they had leeched it from the fish near to Aroughs, they had driven the rest away, by the instinct for danger possessed by all animals, this was only the beginning. Perhaps they had been stocking up on dissidents for years, just in case the spell should be required. It will never be known just how many people they acquired over the years; but they were definitely hard at work in the Siege, when life was especially cheap. Certainly, two of the drained husks of men still sported their legionary helmets.

The spell killed Tertius where he sat, killed the soldiers with him, killed every one in the building, and within a hundred yards, save for a small woman who took to her heels and fled. It also killed an estimated one and a half thousand wretches in the cellar. And, whilst it is perhaps a coincidence, the werelights in the Aroughs marshes were flaring with their greatest vigour in living memory. In addition, the spell caused the destruction of Argard, such was its force; the tower collapsed on itself, crushing fourty nine people to death, including a school party at its lunch break.

The crash was audible for miles around. On the siege lines, soldiers grabbed weapons and stared as the great cloud of dust enveloped Aroughs, and heard screams from the city. The captives downed their tools and immediately ran to Aroughs, shouting for relatives and friends. The guards followed them, shouting the same for Skeate's Company.

Eragon's entire reception committee, Eragon included, jumped to their feet and began shouting orders, with Saphira growling and spreading her wings; they barely fitted between the walls. "Gnaeus Aurelius! Fetch a cohort, and send them in!" Flaccus refrained from drawing his sword; he wished to appear calm, and in any case he mistrusted the new weapon. "To Aroughs!"

Pulcher stared at the city.

"You will take them forward, sir, or you may expect your flogging."

Pulcher ran, waving his arms and shouting, narrowly avoiding Lieutenant Claye, who was attempting to rouse a Regiment in the same manner.

Eragon, Blohdgarm and Roran had climbed onto Saphira, and from her back they both stared out into the swirling fog of dust. A dispatch rider thundered over, and actually threw his message over the wall; the gates were now clogged with soldiers forming ranks and getting ready to advance. Gydrynne opened it and tried to read it aloud; and then handed it to Flaccus; she trusted his voice, so he filled his lungs, and bawled it out.

The message came from one of the prison guards' commanders, and it reported that the tower of Argard had been entirely destroyed. A mass of dead men were found, including the city's entire contingent of robed Black Hand; only two had survived the fighting. In addition, the rubble also yielded the bodies of Tenor Iohann Skeate, the soldiers sent to escort him, and the slave Tertius.

By now, the shouting had lowered in volume; so much so, indeed, that Flaccus could hear Eragon say to Roran and say "Death or Liberty", as the last name was read out.

Gydrynne tensed as Flaccus lowered the message and raised his cane.

"Say that again," he hissed.

"Better to die," Eragon said, as if this was self evident, "than live in slavery."

Before he knew quite what he was doing, Flaccus leapt onto the table and threw himself at Eragon. Both fell, grappling-but, with a snarl, Eragon simply tossed Flaccus aside. Both men were seized by many strong hands before they could draw swords. But the curses still flew.

"Mentula! Pipinna! Mande mertam at morere…"

"You dog faced, snake tongued, floppy haired slaver! You…"

"Enough! Enough!" Gydrynne drew her own sword. "Gentlemen, please!"

"That," said Caastenbergh, "is no way to run an army." He smiled to himself, and watched the shouting, the mass of onlookers, some drawing weapons to defend their leader.

And what was the spell transporting? That was initially difficult to establish, for it was obviously valuable; but the details began to link together. The cavalry patrol engaged by Macedonicus could, perhaps, have been heading for Aroughs; and it could easily have been coming from the direction of the Beors-certainly, no Empire cavalry patrol could have passed through without treating the Surdans pretty well, and avoiding most of them, which seemed to have been their course of action. It was also not impossible that, as the Legion had been hurled into the tunnels by touching a dragon egg, it could have arrived close by. All it would require, indeed, would be for an Imperial agent to be on hand-possibly, say, two of them who, noticing a group of Roman soldiers bearing down on them, could conserve their energy for their flight by merely paralyzing rather than killing them-to obtain this egg.

And on the strangely intact table, originally from the top of the Argard, was a bloodied scorch mark. A round one. Possibly, one might imagine, a dragon's egg.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Eragon cut his visit short. He had much to tell Lady Nasuada. "And besides," he added, "soon, we will face the Empire in battle once more. I will be needed there." He swung onto Saphira, and off they flew, leaving the battered Roman-Varden army to sort through the ruins of Aroughs.

Three days later, the news came. Lady Nasuada had, with the assistance of King Hrothgar, a number of Urgals under a certain Nar Garzhvog, and of course Eragon and Saphira, engaged the enemy at the Burning Plains.

And they had been crushed utterly.

* * *

Glossary

Pilos: A conical felt hat, associated with freed slaves. More recently, it was the basis for the French Revolutionary's distinctive red "cap of liberty"; the French Revolution, in absence of any other previous representative democracies to get their inspiration from, harked back to the Roman Republic, as well as democratic Athens, to get their symbols and suchlike. Since then, the French Revolution has been used for the same purpose.

That both Athens and Rome had large slave populations and a considerable degree of corruption, demagoguery and internal violence is perhaps anticipating how the French Revolution would end; however, the American Revolution also used a considerable amount of classical imagery, with George Washington getting the Roman title "Father of his Country", the White House having a decidedly Classical appearance, and their senior legislative chamber being The Senate.

As another aside, looking back over this story, I am now beginning to wish that I had brought in a Republican legion, perhaps from the time of Gaius Marius. In raw military terms they would be pretty similar-after all, Marius more or less invented the Legion that would lead the Caesars to victory. But there would be a far more interesting clash of ideas, between the despotic Galbatorix, the feudal Surdans, and the Citizen Soldiers of a democratic Republic, albiet one with vote rigging being accepted as standard procedure by all bar the most stern and incorruptible of politicians. However, I think that the main reason I had in mind was simple: bowing to imagined popularity. Everyone knows about the Caesars, with all their pomp and splendor. No one knows about the Senatus Populusque Romanus, with its labyrinthine Cursus Honorum ("Way of Honour"-types of Senators, from People's Tribune to Consul to Aedile), all its different Senators, noble families, Great Men, New Men, Military Men, and so on. Which is a pity; but, as Juvenal said, "Bread and Circuses" (or, for the Emperors, massive Empires and enormous buildings) have a habit of overruling ideas of democracy, whether in fan fiction, Ancient Rome, or even today. Dammit, that sounded pretentious.

Trajan's Salute: It is sometimes thought that it was general practice throughout the entire Roman Empire to, whenever a salute was needed, make a Naziesque sort of salute; indeed, many Fascists and Nazis adopted a "Roman Salute", as did many Revolutionaries before them (such as the French Revolutionaries.) This is not the case. However, the Emperor Trajan is depicted as making a similar sort of salute on Trajan's Column (with a crowd returning it to him), and salutes again on his statue. So, if nothing else, it could be an eccentricity of his.

Fragment of Pythagoras: Pythagoras, like many Greek philosophers, was a polymath. As well as mathematics, he also developed his own classification of food, with some being god like, others being bestial (the Greeks were very centred around Humanity as being the greatest creature of all, especially Hellenic humanity), and there being a scale in between. God like foods included vegetarianism (or, if you must eat meat, pork and goat meat), cereals, spices (or, for the Gods, a spice ox), dry food, and burnt offerings (for the Gods, obviously.) Bestial foods included being a carnivore (especially beef), beans, and rotten food.


	11. III: A Stand

"_The preservation of the republic no less than governing it-what a thankless task it is!" Cicero_

Rain, pattering into the mud.

A road.

Autumn.

Two riders, walking their horses towards each other. One is hooded, with the tattered remnants of a cloak wrapped around his shivering body. The other is not, riding straight backed on her white stallion, letting all the world see her dark face and lank, soaking hair.

Both have swords amongst their saddlebags.

The wind blows once more, slashing like a Forsworn's sword through cloak and scarf alike. The woman glances over her shoulder, perhaps knowing that many actual Forsworn were following her. But it is a brief glance; she tries not to be a coward, and tries hard.

The other rider draws his sword, salutes with a flourish. He tries to say something, but it is lost in the howling gale.

They both spur their horses to a trot, and the exhausted animals only obey reluctantly. Soon, they are right alongside each other, a little clump of life in the desolation.

"Ma'm," the man says, bowing. "It is an honour."

"You," the woman says, "are late."

The man is too tired to argue long. "There was a problem. A brigade of the Imperial Light Horse, almost stopped us altogether. I had to take a circuitous route." He sneezes, scrabbles for a filthy handkerchief. "But still, I am here."

The woman's face relaxes. "It is good to see that you are well, Sir Leon," she says.

"Likewise, Lady Nasuada." Sir Leon Dauthay found his handkerchief, and sneezed explosively. "You are looking, if I may say so, especially beautiful today."

She almost giggled. "Thank you. You have a message?"

"Your hair curls like strands of midnight… I have a message, yes. Their bastard Black Hand constantly watches for us, so we often have to take it by horse, lest we are taken by force." Not his best pun. He whipped out a scroll. Nasauda took it.

"Why do you ride alone?" Sir Leon asked, as she unfurled the scroll.

Her first response was drowned out by the wind, so she had to shout. "For much the same reason as you, Captain. If I was to ride with a full escort, standard flapping erect in the noble breeze, we would be immediately noticed and ridden down by Red Cavalry. But a single rider, however, may be more discreet." She read through the message, struggling to keep it from blowing away. "You're cold. Falneriv?"

"Thank you, Ma'm, thank you. Your generosity knows no bounds!" Sir Leon accepted the flask and drank eagerly. "It has been a very trying few months," he said, wiping his mouth with a dirty glove. "Constantly riding, constantly fighting."

"Yes. Well, Eragon has a stockpile, and he is very kind…" Nasuada finished reading the letter. "Now that is perverse!"

"Perverse?"

"Yes. Gydrynne demands a magical conference. It makes me wonder exactly why she ordered you to ride out in the first place. Scheduling, I suppose. She wants it in sundown, two days time."

Sir Leon stared exasperatedly at the sea of mud. "Then my ride was… pointless!"

"Of course not, you got some Falneriv, and I have a new letter. Come, we've got a camp fire a few miles that way. Let us go." She rode off, but Sir Leon was already asleep in the saddle. His horse, however, followed Nasuada's instinctively. Sir Leon was soon carried into a tent, and Nasuada spent the rest of the day watching the remains of the Varden march into camp. There were precious few of them, and the worst thing was that her usual advisors were gone. Eragon was constantly in flight, seeking out the enemy with his reserves of magic dwindling all the while. Jormundr, bravest of the brave, had fallen to a Captain's mace in the midst of his Foot Guards. Angela was seeing to the wounded, Elva was bound in a tent tearing at herself, Orrin was with the Surdan Horse, Arya at the front, and as for the non humans… Getting them to support a victorious army was hard enough. She shuddered at the prospect of making the Dwarves return, having seen so many of their clansmen fall, and the Urgals! There had been eighteen arrests of "unruly" rams already, of which sixteen were for their assaulting Varden officers. And there were _five thousand_ of the damn things. With Garzhvog dead, who was going to keep them in line?

She went to her tent, and fell into it. Only Farica knew for certain what went on in there; but the sentries could have sworn that they heard the sound of weeping.

Two nights later, Flaccus also fell into his quarters, in his case what had once been an inn called _Crown's Mercy_. For all the efforts of the army's food supply to be distributed to the people, he could still only get a relatively good supper-meaning bread that was not filled with sawdust, and meat that was only partly gristle-at the officer's mess, which was where he cravenly took his meals rather than paying any especial attention to the populace of Aroughs.

"By Hercules," he said. "By Hercules!"

No one replied, which reminded that Tertius was dead. No remarks, no wit, no advice flitted from the little desk in the corner. No scratch of stylus on tablet either, which had made their struggling attempts to administrate an entire city full of the starving, the sick, and perhaps most demanding of all, soldiers, when the Argard keep-the house of the Mayor, containing all the records-had been destroyed, and the mayor killed. Flaccus was now beginning to appreciate exactly why so many provincial governors treated their office as a method of stealing as much of the local artworks, treasure and womenfolk as possible. They would never accept the post otherwise.

Out of force of habit, he started pacing up and down the bare boards of his little room, and thought aloud anyway. "The Varden," he said, "are in crisis."

No words of wisdom as to the nature of the Varden from Rufus. No solid advice from Mactator. No query from Pulcher, who was struggling at present with a mountain of petitions from the city's leper colony.

"The crisis, I feel, is complete. The conference was opened by their wretched elven spellweavers, drawn together at great effort, and when they could have been doing so much else, confirming to each other that the Empire would not be able to see through their connection, and inquiring, in the most formal and flowery terms, after their own health! Lady Nasuada then opened the meeting, at long last, by condemning our conduct of the Aroughs campaign-my conduct of the Aroughs campaign!"

She had attacked the Romans constantly, almost as if they had failed in their task. She had accused them of allowing a dragon egg to slip through their fingers once more by overt caution. Arya, recalled from her duties to represent the Elven View, had had the nerve to add that he was too busy protecting the lives of his own precious Legionaries to consider the strategic necessity of seizing Aroughs, whilst her own folk sat in their forests and lazily groped for their swords. Furthermore, his own preparations for the siege had been criticised, that he had placed too little emphasis on actually taking the city, and too much on sitting outside and defending against dragon attack.

"We saw many things in Mactator's company," she had said scornfully. "We saw stakes, barrels of foodstuffs, and timber in plenty, and hammers, chisels, spades, and all the gear one needs to sit in camp were in abundance; but what was lacking was the gear of assault, the gear that wins dragon eggs, and wins wars."

So Flaccus, as a punishment for trying to conserve casualties, was forced to apologize-the humiliation! So many holes had been torn through the ranks now, so many Centurions and Optios killed, and so many men lost! One thousand, eight hundred and fourty men had died holding the Empire back from Aroughs, of which six hundred had been Roman. Finding good men to replace those officers was to be extremely difficult, and he was never going to replenish the ranks of the XXIII Adiutrix. It never occurred to him that, perhaps, he could have attempted an assault upon a weakened, hungry, outnumbered, out trained, and out armed enemy, and then taunted the armies of the Empire from behind stone walls; that was too far from Caesar's way to merit consideration.

He had, of course, apologized with all the grace that could be expected from a man of his Dignitas. "If I may humbly interject the opinion of a common human soldier, My Lords and Ladies-forgive my ignorant address-then it seems to me that we have achieved, in our campaign, total victory. The armies of the Empire have withdrawn, a city is under our protection, and their dragon lies crippled. It also appears to my humble, ignorant perspective, that, whilst it was a most grievous mistake of our's not to seize a dragon egg that we did not even know to exist, there is no reason why it should hatch now when it has stubbornly refused to hatch for the past hundred years, although I must plea the greatest of ignorance on draconic matters. In addition, if I may be so bold as to make a small query, it is your army that has been crushed by the Empire, so if you will excuse my common, ignorant, soldierly language: _What in the name of Mars went wrong?_"

The answer, slowly and begrudgingly, emerged, and as it emerged, Flaccus' heart sank further.

The expertise of the Varden military leadership was beyond doubt. They had had many advantages: a professional army, full of veterans of decades of skirmishes, whereas the enemy was largely a conscripted force; at least a parity in magic, owing to the presence of a handful of elves; shorter supply lines, in the friendly territory of Surda, whereas the Empire were being forced to cart their own through a barren, hostile, burning wilderness for hundreds of miles; skilled engineers in the form of the Dwarves, who constructed considerable fortifications; and a gigantic, mythical, fire breathing creature capable of flying over any obstacle. Due to their great industry and inventiveness, the Varden managed to squander every last drop of their good fortune.

"So," Flaccus had said as the last babbling mouth shut, "let me, if you will forgive the expression, get this straight. You were faced with an enemy that outnumbered you, and had considerable field fortifications. You decided to abandon these, and march out to attack. But not march, for that would have required a measure of skill in your commanders which was completely lacking. No, you elected to advance at a run, for a distance which, according to my varying sources, ranges from several hundred yards to over a mile. And run, mark you, in full armour, and cheering loudly enough to wake the enemy! You elected to advance your outnumbered, exhausted infantrymen into a wide open field of fire-I use the term literally as well as figuratively-for an enemy who had had several days to precisely calculate ranges for his massed batteries of artillery, heavily defended by magic users, and was determined to use them. After receiving your fire, you elected to order your soldiers to continue their advance, directly into the front of well formed pike blocks, with crossbowmen shooting all the while; and, once engaged, attempted to order your soldiers to continually press the attack for hours on end, when the enemy was capable of using his superior numbers to bring up fresh troops as his own began to tire."

He waited for Blohdgarm to transmit his words, and then said quite clearly: "Ladies and Gentlemen, I had studied military strategy and tactics with great care. This is, without a doubt, the most stupid battle plan I have ever encountered. It is a testament to the fine courage, endurance and fighting qualities of the Alagaesian soldier that they even reached the lines with enough strength to raise their swords, and that the majority of those living have not yet deserted in disgust. If I did not know better, I would suggest that it was the intention of your high command to lose the battle, and spend the rest of their days in the lap of luxury in an Imperial Lord's Castle; such as the reward for traitors, I believe. Had not the Dwarves arrived, forcing the Imperial forces to halt their counter attack, these traitors would be in Uru'baen about now. Certainly, the losses of around twelve thousand casualties, out of a force of twenty thousand men at the battlefield, would make these hypothetical traitors veritable heroes of the Empire."

For a brief moment there was a horrified silence on both ends. Gydrynne both sat her stool, watching Blohdgarm intently for the next message. Roran, representing the Carvahall contingent, cracked his knuckles, obviously thinking hard.

And, after the calm, the storm broke.

The messages were almost hilariously predictable, had not the situation been so serious. Three commanders challenged him to duels, all of which he declined. Almost all of them asked, word for word, "How dare you question our courage? The courage of Eragon Shadeslayer!" (Strangely, Shadeslayer was not among these. He knew that he had fought magnificently, but nothing like enough to compensate for the thirty five thousand men by which the Varden had been outnumbered.) The actual military self justification was even moreso. That, had they attacked with more vigour, they could have overcome the Empire; obviously, the spies of the enemy were at work! Nasuada accused the Surdan cavalry of refusing to charge. Orrin accused her of asking too much of them, that ordering horsemen to charge pikemen twelve times was too much; no, that was the job of the Varden footmen, who failed in every respect! Why, if they had locked them in place, so as he could flank them, although they could easily have screened their flanks with their pikemen whilst simultaneously crushing the Varden…

And, finally, Nasuada made the inevitable remark. Flaccus could imagine her leaning forward in her chair, shuffling her notes for the final push. "If we had had more troops," she said, "we would have won."

"Ma'm, it was your orders that sent them away. And they would, in all likelihood, have been killed anyway."

"Fetch them, then!"

The conference ended shortly afterwards, leaving Flaccus with the Herculean labour of getting the Legion ready to march once more. Flaccus, Gydrynne and Roran had decided after a brief conference of their own to leave one thousand lightly wounded men, along with most of Carvahall, garrisoning Aroughs, and to bring the rest of them. Any Carvahall man who volunteered would be permitted; every one of the men stepped forward immediately, when Roran asked them. This, if one included an estimated 50 casualties suffered by the Surdan cavalry, meant over 10,000 fighting men, not counting the inevitable camp followers, would have to be readied for war at short notice. News of the defeat at the Burning Plains would be announced officially, so as to prevent rumours spreading of it being any more significant. The presence of the new Dwarven army would be focussed on in particular.

"That," Flaccus thought aloud, "is what happens when you leave the decisions of command to a young woman, a boy with a performing animal, a female nymph, a monarch, and a group of freedom fighters, none of whom have ever commanded large formations of human soldiers into open battle before. A disaster!"

With nothing else he could stomach doing, he collapsed into bed: a flea ridden affair, and a shadow of its former four poster glory. His mind was still awhirl with thoughts: half formed ideas, frustration, rage. None of these should be conducive to a sound sleep; but that, ultimately, was what he got. He slept.

And dreamed…

That night, Flaccus dreamed of his wife.

It was their villa on the Bay of Naples. He knew this with the strange vividness of dreams, although it seemed far, far brighter and more open than usual. Sunlight gushed through every wide open shutter, gleaming off every white stone wall, with every inch of marble floor polished to perfection. Even the little strings of flowers, dangling down from their little frames, seemed to shine.

She stood there; tall, gawky, dark haired, modestly dressed, with one of her smiles. Her rare smiles. Rare, because he rarely made her smile. He knew this, knew it well. Even his dream self knew that, which was perhaps why he started sobbing immediately.

"I felt a little ill and called doctor Symmachus.

Well, you came, Symmachus, but you brought one hundred medical students with you.

One hundred ice-cold hands poked and jabbed me.

I didn't have a fever, Symmachus, when I called you –but now I do."

One of Martial's epigrams. Her favorites. He knew that, at least.

"Yes," he found himself saying, and then his daughters were there. The three of them: Cassia, Cassilla, Cassia Minor.

"I felt a little ill and called doctor Symmachus.

Well, you came, Symmachus, but you brought one hundred medical students with you.

One hundred ice-cold hands poked and jabbed me.

I didn't have a fever, Symmachus, when I called you –but now I do."

"Yes," his dream self said, "yes."

Someone coughed.

Flaccus turned, to find a man standing directly behind him. A short man, with spectacles, untidy dark hair, and an extraordinary tan. "I know it isn't polite to enter someone's, ah, house u-unnaccounced," the man said, "but y-you see, ah, well, it isn't really your house, is it?"

Flaccus didn't know quite what to say. His mind, now with the sluggishness of dull reality, scoured his memories. No, he still couldn't place the man. "I'm sorry?" he asked, not quite knowing what was happening.

"This is a dream," the man said.

"I know this," Flaccus replied "for it is mine. I insist that you leave it."

"N-no, no! You misunderstand," the man said, laughing nervously. He suddenly noticed the Cassias looking on curiously, and bowed to them. "Enchanted. Ah… shall we speak elsewhere?"

Flaccus thought for a moment, and came to the conclusion that, as he knew no obvious way of ejecting strange, stuttering men from his dreams, he might as well accept his offer. He shrugged apologetically at his family, hoped they weren't dreaming the same dream, and led the man to his study.

As they seated themselves, Flaccus ensuring he had the larger chair and the great expanse of desk to his advantage, the weather was already beginning to change. The sunlight was less blazing, and, out of the window, Flaccus could almost smell the storm brewing in the Neapolitan heat. Nothing unusual about that, of course-Naples had sporadic summer storms, which made interesting watching- but a bad omen in a dream.

"So," Flaccus began, "could you kindly absent yourself from my dream? It is just that I have a great deal of work to be getting on with, and…"

"Ah-sorry! I forgot to introduce myself, haha." The man, eyes sparking, offered his hand across the desk. "Galbatorix. King of the Empire, Rider of Shruikan, and so on."

Flaccus leaned forward in his chair, watching the man intently. "Interesting," he said. "Publius Cassius Flaccus, Legate of the XXIII Adiutrix, and Senator of Rome." He accepted the handshake. "My question still stands."

"Nyes, nyes, it does. Right." Galbatorix reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small, leather bound book. He leafed through it, sitting bolt upright. "I got the right one," he said after a moment. "Good. Well, I'm here in your dreams. Yes. Man of your dreams, ha-ha, well, I'm here, let's not beat about the bush, to get the measure of my enemy. To make a proposition."

Flaccus raised an eyebrow. "Do you do this to all your enemies?" he asked.

"No, no, only those with weak magical defences." Galbatorix laughed again. "You need to practice."

By Hercules! "So," Flaccus said, "you intend to kill me."

"Kill you! No, no, that requires far more strength than my mind could muster undetected with e-elves close by. Just have a talk. See?" Suddenly, Galbatorix stood and gripped Flaccus by the throat. His hand passed straight through. "Just a dream image. We can talk, see, listen if our minds are open enough, but not attack each other. I am, whatever the V-Varden p-p-propagandists say, a gentleman!"

"Indeed. What do you wish to discuss?"

"A proposition, and a simple one at that. Mmm. Do you wish, Legate, to join the Empire?"

"Explain, sir, exactly why I should." Flaccus instinctively snapped his fingers, remembered Tertius was dead, and with a start found him at his elbow, tablet at the ready.

"He cannot talk, f-f-for the dead have no voice. But he can, ah, write, nyes." Galbatorix flicked a few more pages through his book. "Excuse me… ah. Legate, the reasons why you should join me are simple. The Varden are on the edge of defeat. Their army is crushed, whereas mine is not. The d-dwarves have come, but they will soon go once they realise just how precarious the situation is, and how many will have to die in the name of the Varden. And if you were to somehow muster more armies-difficult in the middle of winter, or so my General Staff tells me-I still have my dragon eggs."

The stylus scratched vigorously, and the King smiled. It was not a nervous smile now. Quite the reverse; the King smiled, for he knew he was, at long last, soon to have his victory. "But I can be merciful to the defeated. You are from a foreign land. You understand little of this war, and were d-doubtless swept up on the wrong side by an accident of fate. If you had emerged in Uru'baen, now, you would be with my Red Tunics. At least, I think so."

"That depends on the reception committee," Flaccus said.

"Oh, yes! I gather you were received by my Urgals. All I can say for that is-sorry. Not my doing that you ended up here! Not theirs either, ha-ha! But you did, and the rest is history. Still, it can be changed. From, ah, a 'doomed last stand' to your Legion marching intact, well fed and rested, under the banner of the Empire, as its honoured elite!"

"But," Flaccus said, "with no Aquila."

"No what? No eagle standard? I see. I'll see what I can do." These last two sentences were made far too quickly for Flaccus' liking. And what did the King know about Roman standards? "But, you see, your men will be far better off under me than under a defeated Varden. You will have your slaves, and can purchase more. Legions of them, if you so please! You will be well fed, your exploits honored, and once we have victory, will be able to grow old and fat under the peace and prosperity of the Empire!"

"I see. But, to clarify; with a mass conscription of three hundred thousand people, out of a population of a few millions, how do you intend to feed the rest?" Out of the teeming masses of the Roman Empire, after all, only around three hundred and fifty thousand men could be mustered. "Who will work the harvest?"

"Oh, peasants. They usually manage." The King shrugged. "D-do you accept the offer?"

"It is interesting," Flaccus said. "Most interesting." He made to rise. "May I have some time alone? I wish to consider it." And he did.

"Of course! This is a dream, and I find that they have m-m-malleable concepts of time, nyes. Very malleable, mmm." Galbatorix smiled, spread his arms wide. "Take your time."

So Flaccus rose, called for a slave to get their guest some wine (it was, after all, his villa), and considered.

His villa was not, he found as he strolled through it, entirely as he had left it in Naples. As the thunder rolled outside, he discovered that it incorporated several rooms from the house in Rome. The library was still there, with the busts of Zeno and Plato, Aristotle and Epicurus glaring at him as he deliberated. The garden was from the villa alright, albeit with several Alagaesian flowers, the names of which he had never learned. Looking up, he thought he glimpsed the Cassias watching him-and then, immediately, they were gone.

Strangest of all, perhaps, was the presence of the family death masks. Not in the cellar where they were usually kept, well maintained in their wooden cabinets, but hanging on a wall right in front of him. He was walking back to the library, with an intense desire to look up some moral tales, when he almost crashed into a wall. The wax masks, beautifully lifelike, stared down. He could recite their names off by heart: Publius Cassius Orator, Publius Cassius Dalmaticus with his red hair… but, right in the middle, was Publius Cassius Felix, the Consul. The old, wrinkled face seemed to emanate a sense of experience and assurance as its chin jutted, eyes always staring out into the next horizon. The eyes that had seen Hannibal and the bloody fields of Cannae, witnessed the waters run red at Trasimene. The mouth, in a stern line, that had helped defend the Shield of Rome himself, the dictator Cunctator, from accusations of cowardice. Would such a man betray his allies?

And the honest answer came: in the interests of Rome, or his dignitas, yes. He turned, and saw the Cassias flit away. "Get to your lessons! The Grammaticus is waiting," he said, but no one answered him.

Afterwards, he could never remember exactly what he sought in the library. But for a time, he sat there, scouring the scrolls like a madman. Lightning flashed almost constantly, illuminating the room more than any candle. Was Jupiter watching him? He wondered. Perhaps.

A gust of wind swept through, causing the door to crash open. Flaccus turned with a start, saw a silouette-but it his wife. Aurelia.

"_Wyrda,"_ she said.

They embraced once.

And Flaccus returned to his study.

Galbatorix still sat there, bolt upright, reading his little book. "Is that interesting?" Flaccus asked, genuinely curious. "I could have something fetched from the library…" he looked around vaguely; the role of courier, especially in his own villa, did not come easily to him.

"Interesting? No! Just my memories, a diary, engagements…" Galbatorix stuttered, stopped, put it down quickly. "Nothing of interest to you," he finished, removing a set of wooden reading glasses. "Nothing."

"Possibly." Flaccus resumed his seat. "But you are a king, an Emperor! Your thoughts cannot be very dull, surely."

"They are to us. But they get so intertwined with His sometimes that I have to write them down before f-f-forgetting!"

"His?"

"The Dragon's. Shruikan's. It's very difficult to explain, but, ah, well. My offer." The King pocketed the book, but still drummed his fingers on the spine. "Do you accept?"

Flaccus looked intently into the King's eyes. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust off his toga, gripped his cane, and, rising to his feet, began to walk around the desk to where Galbatorix's side. His feet echoing on the stone floor, he started pacing, making the King turn awkwardly in his chair to see him.

"It is, I will admit, an interesting offer. It could have been of great advantage to us, I believe. Health, security, riches-all things that a Great Power can offer, and all things which, when the only alternative is filth, death and poverty, can be accepted. Should be accepted! Only a lunatic will refuse them! For what is a lunatic, but a man who rejects the riches of the world, rejects its beauty and wonders, instead to cling to his own petty beliefs and ideals?"

"But what is required, sir, to qualify as a Great Power? It is simple-to have certainty of success against your foes! To be unrivalled in your greatness! To have its name spoken across all the world as a byword for might and mercy, ingenuity and economy, for power and piety and philosophy. Which brings me, of course, to the reason that I reject this offer."

The cane crashed onto the floor, echoing loudly. Flaccus turned, eyes boring into Galbatorix's. "When, Oh Great King," he said, "will this Empire cease to abuse our patience?"

It was not, he would admit, a speech made up on the spot; for every child of any learning would be taught, by their Grammaticus, their teacher of oratory, the works of Cicero, and it was not that difficult to adapt it. But the vehemence with which it was spoken shocked even Flaccus. Every last bitter thread of anger he had felt over the past months-of frustration at the Varden's stupidity, sorrow at the deaths of his men, and of sheer blind rage at the ludicrous situation the Gods had placed them in-was poured into the speech, into every hissing syllable, all directed at this one quietly spoken man who ordered the deaths of thousands without a blink of his eye.

"For how long must we continue to put up with the madness of its ruler? When is there to be an end of its audacity, swaggering about as it does now under the eyes of the world, of the Gods, in its pretense as a great power? Does not the muster of the Elves and Dwarves-does not the resurrection of dragons-does not the rebellion amongst its people, and the famine soon to ensue through lack of men- does not the contempt and disdain of all good men and races have any effect upon it? Do you not feel that your plans are detected? Do you not see that your armies are to be crushed and rendered powerless by the might of the world at arms? What is there that you have mustered-what rabble of feeble foot-what mob of horse-what feeble sand castle-what circus of petty dragons and coven of conjurers, do you consider us unable to defeat?"

"What a place this is, and what morals there are! The Elves can crush them-the Varden and Dwarves can crush them- and yet this still endures. Endures! Yes, it spreads across the land, it takes a part in the affairs of the world, and all the while it has been marking down which peoples it wishes to gorge upon. And for too long have its opponents, gallant men that they are, floundered against it, holding it in check with the merest shadow of their power."

"What? The Varden are defeated, you say? Did not that most illustrious man, Fabius Maximus Cunctator, as Dictator of Rome, put to flight the great army of Hannibal, though having lost a hundred thousand men in the process? Was it not the call of Cato Censorius, the Consul, that Carthage, that greatest of cities, must be destroyed in every one of his speeches-and was it not razed to the ground by Africanus himself? And shall the Varden, and the Elves and Dwarves, with all their might, tolerate a foe which cares not for the welfare of its citizens, but only the pointless conquests of its leaders? There is-there is such steel in the Roman soldier that, as he helps the Varden, none can stand before it. The Varden may once have failed in their duties. But no longer."

"Let us go over the events, then, of the past year. You mustered a horde of Urgals, unrivalled, so you believed, in strength-and it was slaughtered to the last beast, the remainder choosing to serve the Varden, who were obviously unmatched in power. Then you muster your great armies, only to have them humiliated, your dragon rider-I'll be precise-your dear Murtagh unmounted, and Aroughs, a veritable jewel of a merchant city, taken, with negligible losses to the besiegers. Your armies, it is true, defeated a number of the Varden-only for even greater armies to step into place, from the Elves, from the Dwarves, from the victorious hosts of the Varden, and the Romans! Why your silence? Do you deny this? Do you deny, King, that your armies are to be shattered, your towns put to the sword, your castles cast down?"

"Oh, ye immortal gods, where in the world are we? Where are we that can even tolerate, amongst the dignified peoples, and all their might and strength, men who wish to mediate their ends, and the death of their citizens-all by the orders of a King and his dragon, lost in their own arrogance. You decided where you want each crown to be brought to your throne, and laid at your feet. You chose which cities are to be burnt, even as your armies make ready for their defeat. You even sent armies, feeble armies, to stop us. So I say to you, Oh Great King, why do you not leave, to fulfil your orders? At long last, you may leave my mind, and return to your bed, filled as it doubtless is with catamites of the worst sort. The gates are open! Be on your way! Even the feeble, fumbling armies await their General. Take all your followers. Put a thousand miles between us, for all I care. Ready your fleet for your inevitable voyage into exile-even you cannot be so arrogant as to not possess such a bolt hole against your fall. And you know that, when you fall, there will not be a person in the world who will not hate you."

"That's a no, then," the King said.

"Let the King, then, depart! Go forth then, Oh Great King, to your iniquitous and wicked war, and bring salvation to the world, disaster and ruin on yourself, and destruction on those who have joined you. Jupiter will protect us, and unleash his punishment eternal!

As Galbatorix stood, lightning flashed. A sure sign of Jupiter-but he remained standing, shook hands with Flaccus one last time, and departed.

Flaccus slept for some hours, awoke thoroughly refreshed, and told Pulcher of what had happened.

"We all get some queer dreams, you know. But why did you decline it?" Pulcher asked.

Flaccus' explanation included many things. He could never order the men to withdraw, he explained, without some magic user finding out and unleashing the rest of the Varden on them, or even having Shadeslayer and the Surdan cavalry harry his ranks as he withdrew, even if he was to somehow steal enough supplies without being noticed. He had no wish to serve in an army where any slightly untrustworthy looking individual could be killed on sight-and a Roman, as a foreigner from another continent, would doubtless look extremely untrustworthy. Finally, as a famine would doubtless ensue if the King conscripted hundreds of thousands of people from an Empire which, as it had few cities, was presumably possessed of a low population, he doubted that they would be very much better fed in the army of the Empire than in the army of the Varden.

He did not include any speech in his explanation; indeed, there was very little highfalutin rhetoric at all.

((Author's note begins: If you are looking down here for a glossary, this chapter has none. Please, return to where you left off.

Anyway, the moment I read that speech-The First Oration Against Catiline-I knew it was going in somehow. It has been somewhat shortened, and somewhat adapted from the original. And it has probably crossed the line between "heroic speech" and what the people at TV Tropes call "Narm". But still, it's in there. And, as for it in context… Flaccus can get away with certain amounts of hypocrisy-Trajan will conquer more in his reign than Galbatorix ever will- because Galbatorix knows very little about Rome. And it is debatable whether he actually means the speech seriously, or if he just wants to spook the King.

What Cicero would think of being used in someone's fanfic is debatable. On the one hand, he was probably vain enough to feel pretty cheerful that he is still being appreciated thousands of years on. On the other, more likely option, is that he would be pretty irritated at having his precious work being spouted out in some adolescent's bizarre internet ramblings. Well, I can't please everyone. Please review!

The next few chapters are going to be gradually shifting the viewpoint. The next will feature a sort of history book retelling of exactly what the Elves are getting up to whilst all hell breaks loose on the Southern front. The one after will introduce a new viewpoint, where people speaking The Queen's Latin will be minimised.))


	12. III: The North

Author's Notes, as usual.

Firstly, to my readers. There seems to be some impression that I have a strange knowledge of the classics. This is not the case. I do not know Latin, Greek etc, and neither have I read many of the Classics (apart from a few translated Greek plays when school was doing a production of one of them.) My style of getting "interested" in a certain period of history involves accidentally picking up some book about it, reading and enjoying it, and then scavenging as many interesting other lumps of knowledge as possible, including from historical novels, other books, the internet… As a result, a coherent picture of what happened when only gradually emerges, but I have plenty of little things to insert into stories. Any mistakes on my part are entirely down to this style of "learning". This can also possibly lead to anachronisms within the ancient world (for example, being a "cuttle fish eater" was definitely slang in Athens at the height of its power-but it may not be in 100AD.)

Secondly, a note about this chapter. This is yet another blow for anyone who had kept doggedly reading this in the hope that they may find "good writing" rather than the outpourings of a deranged geek's head about military stuff. There won't even be that many Romans. Instead, it's a future history book explaining exactly what the Elves are getting up to. It is, where possible, keeping close to the canon established in "Brisingr" (at least, I think it is), and is only making up what is sort of "possible". The exception to this is, of course, the numbers employed by the Imperial Army. The Roman Empire at its height, out of a population numbering tens of millions, only had around 350,000 fighting men (although, in an emergency, Rome had been able to conscript considerable proportions of its population-for example, in Marius' Cimbrian War at the Battle of Arausio, the army of the far smaller Roman Republic lost around 120,000 men, but simply drafted more until the Germans were eventually defeated.) No European medieval state could ever support an army of 100,000 men, let alone an army of 300,000. However, as CP has already fudged the numbers, I felt that I may as well fudge them a bit more, as well as giving the Empire some "excuses" as to how they can get so many. (Notably: a more centralized, and therefore efficient, system of conscription due to Galbatorix's feudal vassals being sworn to serve him in the Ancient Language; a more efficient Staff capable of mustering, supplying and ordering around such numbers; and the fact that it is a national emergency meaning that more or less every able bodied man is being handed a pike and ordered to the front.) As for how I'm writing it, I decided that it would be a history book because we should probably know what's going on up there, but it would simply be too much effort to tell it in a narrative manner, battle by battle, with brand new characters being concocted. (Although, as of part way through writing it, it does look rather too technical for my liking.)

Finally, there will definitely be a new point of view next chapter. She will be an interesting preposition to write, but I'm looking forward to it.

"_No one is so stupid as to prefer war to peace. In peace, sons bury their fathers. In war, fathers bury their sons." King Croesus of Lydia_

(Taken from "Kingsblade: The Great War for Alagaesia" by Boniface of Strickhard. Published by the Belatona Printworks.)

One fine autumn morning in Aberon, the Legate Flaccus entered a meeting of the Varden leaders with the bold announcement that "Only I can save the Varden". He then, before anyone could contradict him, outlined his plan. The Varden, reluctantly, consented. This will be dealt with in a later chapter.

At the same time, hundreds of miles away in Uru'baen, another man was emerging from a meeting of the Imperial General Staff. His name was John of Genswick, and he had just been appointed Master of Soldiers for the Northern Front, effectively the supreme commander in that area. Only the King could technically override his orders; and, as the King was rarely seen, it granted him considerable powers. Popular legend has it that the bold announcement in that meeting was Murtagh, in his capacity of the King's Eye, pointing at the North and instructing John to "Grind the elves down", before appointing him as the Master of Soldiers and ordering him to his station. However, such a remark has not appeared on the minutes of that meeting, Murtagh was not present, and it would in any case be entirely out of character for the Imperial General Staff. They seem to have spent the entire morning discussing the situation in the North, scouring reconnaissance reports for any details of Elven activity, and considering exactly which of their plans to employ.

The Imperial General Staff was the only organization of its kind in Alagaesia at that point. It had been formed in the early years of Galbatorix's reign, when the inevitable questions arose of how the newly formed Empire was to defend itself from its assorted enemies. Internal foes, after all, were already being dealt with by the Black Hand, who had already purged most of the opposition in the Scouring of Melian. How, then, were external enemies to be fought? The armies of the Elves, Dwarves, Surdan separatists and what would ultimately become the Varden were still a formidable threat, and the Empire was still recovering from a long and bloody war.

In the short term, the answer was simple: having the Forsworn, with their mighty dragons, incinerating all opposition, and for a time this worked. However, as the Forsworn started to perish, it was realized that a new solution was required. A group of the Empire's greatest military leaders formed a commission to formulate one. They soon realized that, if the Forsworn were to be killed, the Empire would be lacking many advantages it had enjoyed whilst it had waged war in the age of the Riders. They would lack the powerful magic and squadrons of Dragon Riders of the earlier years. Human soldiers, especially illiterate ones without magical communications, would be incapable of using the same level of initiative to accompany their missions, and would be far less skilled in single combat than elven, dwarven, or even the Varden veteran soldiers. And, most likely, the Empire would be attacked on all sides. The assorted military leaders and their commission gradually expanded to form the Staff, which ultimately took control of the army, although the Black Hand still policed it to ensure its political loyalty.

The only advantages the Empire could possibly have in a future war, the Staff concluded, would be its greater resources in terms of population, and natural resources. In addition, the Elves had left its cities with a legacy of engineering that could be put to good use. But these would have to be mustered with the greatest of precision if they were to be forged together into the weapon that would defeat the enemies of the Empire.

So, for decades, the Staff ensured that there could be just such a level of precision. Every last resource in the Empire was recorded. Maps were constantly drawn and redrawn, whenever a new road or city wall was constructed, or the geography naturally changed. The population of cities was noted down, with detailed estimates into just how many conscripts could be drafted, or animals used for military purposes. The Duke of Belatona, the Chief of Staff in the seventieth year of the King's reign, once boasted that he could tell an audience exactly how many trees were in the Spine's forests-and how many stockades could be manufactured, should the need arise. Roads and canals were also constructed, so as to move troops and supplies more rapidly to the front.

Magic users, whilst not individually powerful, were used with the greatest efficiency. Networks of them were set up to scry the border of Du Weldenvarden. This was not expected to be completely effective, for the Elves were presumed to have strong defenses; but rather, they would give some indication that large bodies of troops were moving. Perhaps most importantly was the setting up of a commission dedicated to stockpiling stored magical energies; dissidents from the Empire were likely to find their life force being agonizingly drained into crystals, which could be used to enhance the power its of magic users. The effectiveness of this was demonstrated most graphically, although haphazardly, in the aftermath of the Siege of Aroughs.

The training of the army was streamlined, so as the pike and crossbow-weapons which were simple, but still deadly-became commonplace amongst the mostly conscript infantry, apart from in a few professional regiments of foot, and the handful of cavalry regiments and the Order of the Forsworn which remained traditional and aristocratic in composition. Merit was used for promotion, especially among the engineers, and the Staff themselves.

John of Genswick was himself a typical product of this new army. He was born the son of an architect, joined the artillery at a young age after getting into a duel, and was noticed for his intelligence. He rapidly worked his way through the ranks, seeing action against Varden rebels at the Teirm Rising, and joined the staff at age 47. As with all staff officers, he was posted to every kind of regiment, from cavalry to infantry to artillery to engineers, to get an understanding of how it fought, before joining the Planning Committee. The Staff constantly drew and redrew war plans for every sort of military situation (one even existed for the Ra'Zac attempting to stage a coup backed by a group of Elven conspirators!) decades in advance of the actual conflict, even testing them out in non violent war games. This was, for the time, an astonishing innovation, and would prove to be a key asset for the Imperial Army throughout the Great War. John himself, a small, bespectacled, "modest man with much to be modest about" in the words of the Master of Soldiers for the Southern Front Sir Gilbert Lackland, would doubtless have downplayed its role if ever asked about it himself, perhaps muttering about some "clever fellows in Uru'baen."

There could not be a greater contrast between this and the state of the Elves in the early stages of the Great War. The Elves had drafted plans, but only for the defence of Du Weldenvarden. This was, in part, due to a lack of reliable information about the lands beyond; although they could easily have scryed the land, Queen Islanzadi simply assumed that King Galbatorix would be waiting for the mind to branch out, and would simply take over and destroy the mind on the spot. Neither did they ask the Varden for any more maps; the Elves believed that the mere humans of the Varden couldn't possibly discover any changes, and that if they did, then they were self evidently incorrect. Galbatorix had to have destroyed the Elven Empire with inhuman skill or magic, they told themselves. It required inhuman skill and magic to stop him.

It was therefore surprising that the initial Elven mobilization was as effective as it actually was. The Elves lacked any true supply network, either formal or informal. One argument for this catastrophic oversight is that, in previous wars, the Elves had ruled a large Kingdom, had no wish to expand further, and could simply march their armies to a city and (in a long war) cause crops to grow with their immense magical powers. Therefore, it had not occurred to them that, as the power of the Elves diminished, they may need to actually move the crops from place to place. Another is that, as a society, the Elves were astonishingly individualistic. Every one of them simply satisfied their whims at leisure, whether magical arts, carving wood, or more bizarre pastimes, and took food as it came from the forests of Du Weldenvarden. Any form of social organization beyond family groups, and that they were all Elves as a race, did not exist. Therefore, the argument goes, now that the time had came to attack Galbatorix and avenge the fall of the Riders, every single fully grown elf grabbed his or her weaponry and some foodstuffs, before running off to join the army. None of them wanted to stay behind and do the unglamorous job of driving supply wagons or engineering roads; and the Queen proved notably reluctant, as problems started to arise, to order them to do so.

In any case, as soon as news of the advance of the Empire's Southern Army reached Du Weldenvarden, the Elves mustered their armies almost immediately. The news was spread informally, from family to family, but it still spread rapidly via magic. As horses were rare beasts, the Elves had to band together on foot; but, nevertheless, they mustered within ten days, and immediately 30,000 Elves sallied forth from Du Weldenvarden to fight the Empire.

Throughout the Summer, however, the Empire had been marshalling its forces. Towns were rapidly being stripped of able bodied men, who were being rapidly ordered to their units. Weapons and supplies, stockpiled for decades, were issued, grizzled professional soldiers trained nervous recruits, and the military roads were filled with soldiers marching to the North. The result was that, just as the Elves were emerging, the Imperial Army of the North, numbering 180,000 men with 20,000 in reserve in Uru'baen to call upon, was also marching northwards, with its own massive supply train running like Elven clockwork. The orders had been perfectly issued down carefully designated trails of magic users. As soon as the orders were issued, every unit knew exactly where to march to, where to fetch their supplies, and even a vague idea of where they were expected to fight.

All this detailed planning, however, was almost destroyed by the efforts of one man: Lord Roger Sherezade of Cenuon. Lord Roger was renowned for his kindness towards his people. He took his duty as Protector of Cenuon extremely seriously, even ensuring that everyone taken by the Black Hand was given a fair trial-often at considerable cost to his own political standing and reliability. Under his rule, Cenuon City had sewers constructed; orphanages opened; schools reintroduced with a curriculum dedicated to literacy and numeracy rather than Political Theory; and even canals dug, so as to allow a more rapid transit of goods and crops. This kindness and generosity was, perhaps, Lord Roger's main weakness. For when he heard that the Elves were making an unprovoked attack on Cenuonite citizens who were busily chopping firewood, he immediately mustered his militia, ordered the regiments allocated to the General Staff's war plans to be returned to his control and, despite a complete lack of military experience on his part, ordered a counter attack against the Elven armies.

His forces numbered 20,000 men, fully equipped with pike, crossbow, and even a few regiments of cavalry. The elves who at first attacked his citizens numbered just three, among them the elven queen; and they understandably withdrew the moment the Army of Cenuon crashed into Du Weldenvarden with trumpets blaring, colours raised and thousands of boots trampling the undergrowth. Lord Roger's scouts, all experienced woodsmen, soon ascertained that the attackers had fled, and they advised him to obey the orders that he had been receiving for the fortnight he had spent pursuing the Elves: to withdraw to Cenuon, to order his regiments to the control of the General Staff, and to prepare for a siege. Lord Roger, however, staring flinty eyed out into the darkness of the woods, ignored the orders. The only way to defend his people, he said, was to crush those who sought to rob, pillage, and burn their homes. The only way to defend his people, he said, was to attack.

And so, whilst his Black Hand agents struggled to get their messages through the ever strengthening wards to magical communication that the Elves had been setting up that Lord Roger had decided to go insane and slaughter his army for no purpose, the Army of Cenuon struggled to advance through the ever denser eaves of Du Weldenvarden. For a week his army was left unmolested. The Black Hand reported mounting desertions, mostly due to men running home to see their families, but a gradually growing minority due to other causes: voices that suddenly howled out of the darkness, strangely ethereal lights spotted in the distance, and worse.

After a week of allowing the Army of Cenuon to exhaust itself in a fruitless march Northwards, the Elven army, which had all the while been stealthily surrounding it, attacked. They attacked at midnight, when the night eyes of the Elves were able to penetrate the darkness perfectly, and the sentries were close to slumber. Only 5,000 Elves, it is estimated, actually conducted the attack, for only 5,000 were needed; the rest simply continued onwards to Cenuon.

From concealed positions, Elven archers shot repeated volleys of arrows into the shocked human troops. The army, stunned, struggled to form up, only to find that the arrow volleys were being shot from a closer and ever close range. Eventually, a rough sort of square was formed, but it had poor cohesion due to Duweldenvarden's trees and plants disrupting their tightly ordered ranks.

In addition, by that point Elven infantry had demonstrated their new form of fighting. Their finest warriors had, decades ago, realized that the Elves now lacked the manpower to engage the teeming masses of human soldiers in old fashioned, formation based fighting, where blocks of soldiers would fight each other toe to toe until, eventually, one side broke. They also realized that the Elves had the capacity to rely on their greater abilities for communication via magic, their superb individual fighting skills and marksmanship, and that they had time to educate and train their soldiers for far greater periods than in any human army, due to their longer lifespans. This led them to having small groups of elves fighting in loose skirmish lines, using their own initiative rather than the orders of a supreme commander to make decisions. They would work their way towards the enemy, using cover and concealment whenever possible to minimize losses, and all the while would ensure that the enemy kept their heads down by pouring arrows and magic into their ranks, targeting officers in particular. Eventually, when the enemy was sufficiently weakened and disorganized, they would draw swords and charge. The charge should preferably be conducted from multiple sides; the Elves, with their superior magical communications, would have hopefully coordinated their movements and attacks to ensure that this could be conducted.

The result of this that the square of the Cenuon army was beginning to disintegrate even before the first charge hit. It bristled with pikes, and crossbow bolts were being shot frantically into the darkness; but without officers, the volleys were wild, and the pike lines gradually buckling. After a few minutes of sustained longbow fire, elves suddenly rose up out of cover and threw themselves at the pikemen. A few were stabbed, but most dodged past the frantic thrusts, and started to cut down soldiers by the dozen. Some of the elven skirmish groups had found their way in between different regiments of pikemen, and routed them instantly.

It was nearly a total massacre. Only a full scale charge of the Cenuonite Horse with couched lances, which had been sheltering in the middle of the square, was able to drive back the Elves even for a few moments. Desperate, the surviving members of the Black Hand performed a field execution on Lord Roger, and immediately ordered a full retreat. The army stubbornly marched back to Cenuon, plouhging through Elven blocking the forces with sheer weight of numbers, whilst having to commit regiment after decimated regiment to fighting rearguard actions. Only eight thousand men emerged from Du Weldenvarden after a three week long disaster. Cenuon had been taken, and was almost completely burnt to the ground in vengeance for what the elves perceived as a crime against nature. The Staff had intended to hold the Elves before its walls, whilst preparing for the next stage of their Plan. It was a significant Imperial defeat.

However, they had not been counting on the sheer incompetence of the Elven supply system. Cenuon had been burned to the ground, and with it a considerable stock of food, arrows, and other useful supplies which could have fed the elven army. The peasants, in the countryside surrounding Cenuon, could have been pillaged for supplies; but they were extremely experienced at hiding their crops after years of the King's army attempting to requisition it, and had no desire to yield it to otherworldly Elves who had butchered so many of their friends and family. This meant that, after a few chaotic weeks in which all the Elves' existing supplies were consumed, that troops eventually had to be sent from the front lines to start producing, and transporting, supplies from Du Weldenvarden to the Elven army. This removed around 10,000 elves from the fighting, and gave the Empire the time it needed anyway. As Winter began to intensify, supply problems were only exacerbated.

After five weeks of setting up a supply chain, the Elves finally began to advance, only to discover a country entirely changed from their old maps. One with new canals, changed topography, new forests, and, most strangely of all, an almost deserted countryside. The peasantry had been ordered to take their harvest and abandon their homes, often at pike's point, so as to deny the enemy any forage. This was not successful in all areas, with some villages putting up resistance, and others simply hiding; but it was still mostly effective.

The Elves continued to advance still, their supply lines ever lengthening-and then stopped, amazed.

Their rider Oromis saw it first, but the Elven leaders refused to believe it, considering it a trick of the King's scrying. Their soldiers proved them wrong.

The Empire had constructed a vast wall of fortifications, stretching right across its territory, to block off an Elven advance, and hold them back. The so called "Galbatorix Line" had been constructed from the River Ninor to the Spine. Ironically, one of the strong points was a previously little known village called "Carvahall". There, the rebellious peasantry had helpfully constructed walls for the Empire, thus saving a great deal of time and money. The Line consisted of hundreds of small forts, each containing a few hundred soldiers, a magic user with a vast stock of power crystals to hold off Elven magic, and at least one cavalry regiment every few miles. The Cavalry would be there to reinforce threatened sectors of the Line, and to exploit any breakthroughs in the enemy force; as each was connected by ruler straight, well paved roads, they would move up relatively quickly. The forts were often constructed in areas which would be especially difficult to attack-for example, atop hills or mountains.

The Line would be extremely difficult to outflank, for it was covered both sides by mighty rivers (patrolled heavily by the Imperial Navy, and with all bridges destroyed), and other natural obstacles-such as the impenetrable mountains of the Spine, and the vastness of the Hadarac Desert.

The Elves made frequent attempts to storm fortresses, but each failed. They relied heavily on their magic to break down walls, and this was taken away from them due to the power of the Imperial magic defences. Their attempts at engineering siege equipment inevitably met in failure, due to a great reluctance to cut down trees, or even scavenge old wood, for fear of harming them. And they had to stretch their small army extremely thin so as to cover all sectors of the Line. Whenever they attempted to concerntrate for an assault, Master John would order a counter attack to be prepared in another sector of the line, forcing the Elves to commit troops elsewhere. Their advantages in single combat, bravery and skill at arms were entirely neutralized by the sheer mass of fortifications and thousands of men blocking them.

The final Elven chance for a breakthrough took place in the deadly midwinter battle at Gil'ead. A force of 2,000 elves led by Oromis was all that could be spared. They aimed to attack Gil'ead, a major supply hub for the Galbatorix Line, across the frozen Lake Isenstar. Gil'ead was believed to be lightly defended, and, if destroyed, would prove a crippling blow to the Imperial Army of the North.

However, massed Imperial scryers had detected the movement of Elven troops, and reserves were brought up in the form of the Imperial III Corps, under the command of General Ludwig of Baxton. Once again, the Elves attacked at night; but this time, it was against a prepared position. Spiked ditches had been dug, and emplacements for artillery and crossbowmen prepared across the shoreline. Vast stocks of lamp oil had been moved up, to fill the lake with light and fire. Both Ra'zac had been sent for, and both arrived, in readiness to do battle with their oldest of enemies. In total, the Elves were outnumbered by about 15 to one in manpower as they attacked.

But, even so, General Ludwig was right to describe it as "the closest run thing I ever saw." The Elven infantry attacked in a rush, neglecting initial volleys of arrows in favour of a brief, close range volley and a charge with their blades. This surprised the defenders, who only had time for a single salvo of crossbow bolts before watching their attackers leap over their earthworks, swords in hand and spells at the ready. Oromis was prevented from assisting the ground troops by the combined attacks of both Ra'Zac; but even so, III Corps was forced out of its defences in bitter hand to hand fighting. They rallied in Gil'ead itself, however, forming walls of pikes in every street. As crossbowmen shot bolts from every window, and the Black Hand held the Elven magic users at bay, they slowly began to advance, street by street. Each elf had to face at least four soldiers stabbing at him with pikes, and, for all their skill, they were eventually repelled by weight of numbers. General Ludwig himself was mortally wounded ordering the final charge, but so was Oromis, his dragon forced to flee before the Ra'zac. The Empire lost four thousand men. The Elves lost any chance of an early victory.

For a more detailed analysis of the Battle of Gil'ead, see Chapters 2 and 4…


	13. IV: Flight

First thing: welcome back! It's been a while, I know. I have had a holiday, then writers' block, then Uni (History at the University of Nottingham, if you're interested-I certainly am) and writers' block, then… frankly, I have been more or less unable to write anything bar essays for the past few months. Over the recent months, I have also discovered a wonderful new fanfic. Readers, I've often been heard to remark about how nice it would be if people actually did some research about the medieval period before dumping hapless teenagers into some poor unsuspecting medieval fantasy world. For an example of seeing this done right, I would suggest reading the wonderful "Don't Panic!" by boz4PM. It's a Lord of the Rings fic, it's pretty long, and I sometimes feel that it drags a bit; but, still, it follows the other logical route of dumping people from Earth into a fantasy world. Either have them already badass and used to immense hardship, or have them struggle against the discomfort of life without plumbing, electricity, much heating, any knowledge of the language… I chose the former route. She chose the latter. I would like to think that both worked well. Sadly, many crossovers choose neither, and have omnicompetent teens wondering through a centrally heated, scrupulously cleaned world where they hold enough magic to blatter the enemy aside with precious little effort, or can tackle formidably armoured warriors with their UBER KUNG FU SKILLZ/dragons… (you've all heard this rant before, I think, so it will stop-now.)

If it looks like I've underpowered the Elves in last chapter, then tough. In a way, I believe this is exactly what CP would have wanted to happen. After all, it would be good to have a powerful, threatening enemy for the heroes to face, rather than an incompetent, bungling one. And, as his heroes are in the South, he presumably wants them to deliver the decisive blow, rather than the Elves hundreds of miles away. Otherwise, it would look like he's just heaping all the goodies on these irritating, arrogant eco-warriors, and of course, we all know he's far too good a writer for that, don't we?

(Although I admit a few mistakes-for example, the Imperial peasants hide food effectively, and then having the Empire conducting scorched earth tactics, which means they would have to find said food to take it away/destroy it.)

Now, introducing a new Point of View. For those of you who are reading this largely for the clash of armies and manouveres, don't worry. They'll still be there. Just taking a slightly back seat role in comparison to what I'm switching to now, which is a more character based adventure story focusing on an Imperial spy, with occasional flashes to other Points of View. For those of you who want to see MOAR FIREPOWERS, may I suggest taking a trip over to the excellent Command and Conquer fanfic, _Tiberium Wars_ by Peptuck? Yes, it has guns rather than gladiuses, and the Knights in Shining Armour are in Heavy Armour regiments, but even I, someone whose knowledge of Command and Conquer stretches to having played on _Red Alert 2_ a few times, found it a good war story.

Still with me? Good. This PoV is here firstly because I felt that the Imperial response to all these Romans could be interesting, secondly because I thought she would be appreciated by my readers, and thirdly because I like a challenging protagonist to write. And she will be a challenge. Thus far, almost all of the heroes I have written for anything have been gentlemen, many have been soldiers, and almost all (with one notable exception) have been working for a large organization, requiring extensive teamwork, coordination, and lots of people to win the day-often, this organization has been an army. So writing a comparatively individualist young lady will be interesting and enjoyable, hopefully both for reader and for writer.

As a final note: I know hardly anything about the effects or timescale of starvation, famine, or people generally getting no food. I know that the lower classes of the city would probably have suffered worse because mid summer was a lean period even without besieging armies, and that this is the Empire, so the peasantry must be by definition starving to death. (Apart from in Carvahall, that is.) But I don't know in that much more detail. So, please, if anything's wrong… I'll try and get it right next time I write a story involving a siege.

(MANY MONTHS LATER: I was finishing this off from University, but have just got home. It is time, therefore, to continue this little story. Why? I have just had a Semester of studying Roman archaeology, and I have been trying to force myself to write… something-but I can't, for some reason! So I may as well to start this story up again. Wish me luck! Quality is highly likely to be, in many areas of this chapter, pretty poor and disjointed, but I have a mental image of how this story should be running after this chapter. It will include plentiful amounts of swashbuckling, adventure, Roman history, distinctive-if not fully 3D-characters and, hopefully, an ending. Are you with me, readers? If so, let's go!)

"_Little mice move out of buildings when they are about to collapse." Pliny, Natural History 8.103_

I have had, in my seventeen years of existence, many names. You have previously met me as Bohemonda. However, the one I prefer is Anne.

Anne. Little name, one syllable, unthreatening. For old maids and nuns, mostly. Certainly not a squire of the Black Hand. Which, maybe, is correct. I have no knowledge of my birth name; but I was usually called Anne, when my Master found my in the gutters of Uru'baen. Since then, working in the Empire's secret service, I have lost count of my pseudonyms. In fact, I try to forget them. The pseudonyms' best friends, usually based on a chance encounter in a tavern, have a habit of mysteriously disappearing. From the age of fourteen onwards, I started appearing in their interrogation chambers. It was not pleasant, especially when they recognized me.

Bohemonda, though, was an especially unpleasant identity to adopt. It was my first independent assignment: to root out a traitor in the glittering city of Aroughs, who appeared to have been evading the King's Taxes. I found him in short order; but the Varden Army, with their Romanorum, found Aroughs first, and laid siege to it.

The siege is well covered in military texts of all kinds; but since this is supposed to be a diary, of sorts, I will keep the description brief. The Aroughs Black Hand was, it must be said, extremely willing to protect their citizens from Varden infiltration, as well as the Empire as a whole. They fought alongside them with commendable bravery, generally refrained from executing excessive quantities of "dissidents", and even used only the diseased, the elderly, the weak, and capital punishment victims for magical energy. They even lent their assistance to those wounded who could be expected to fight again-an action, I gather, that no other Black Hand cell ever conducted. It also meant that they stoically refused to accept any food above the ever diminishing rations of the city's food supplies. The result? I starved with them. I did not lie to that slave, in that respect at least. So, too, did that false merchant of a "husband". Sir Kalmar Boyce was a good man, but not one I miss particularly. Good men are rarely clever ones.

So, we have had the name of the hero. We have the recent past of the hero. But what of her appearance? It changes, often, in all aspects. But I have a small handful of constants: darkish hair, greenish eyes, and am generally not especially tall.

I'll tell you something else, too. I'll tell you how I escaped from Aroughs.

So, The Mind in the Tower said its words, the egg was flicked away, and the Argard fell, with me caught right in the middle. Not a good start to an escape, it must be said.

I remember little of it, save for the great, rolling _crash_, as the tower collapsed in the vortex of magical energy. I remember screams, shouts-and something hitting me hard on the head.

I remember groggily rising, feeling blood trickling down my face. I remember stumbling, through the fog of smoke, of dust and ash and shattered rock. I remember passing a pile of meat, under a gigantic stone; I wondered, dimly, why a dog hadn't savaged it yet, before realizing that the red, bloody flesh was not meat at all. One of them still wore buckled shoes. My head throbbed, like a chunk of granite was expanding in the back of it.

Something, suddenly, loomed out. I squeaked, and scrabbled for something to throw; a face, horribly white-

"Has anyone seen Elizabette?" it boomed.

I gaped up at it.

"Elizabette! Little dark woman, lots of friends!" The face moved forward, to reveal an astonishingly neatly clad body, picking nervously at its finger. "Everyone knows her, works at a school. Elizabette! Elizabette…" the face, slowly, receded.

What I remember most vividly of all, with hindsight, was the stench. The reek of foul, unwashed bodies, kept in the dark for months, was wafting gently out of confinement. But at that time, my first thought was: Time to go.

I ripped a rag out of my shawl, groped at my head, found the blood (a gash from falling debris), forced my body to turn towards what I thought was my lodgings, and made a stumbling run for it.

No one, in Aroughs of all cities, would find a running woman, dressed in the filthy remnants of fine clothes, suspicious now. As the Black Hand became less and less focused on maintaining law and order, and the Watch was ordered to man the walls, crime only increased. The black market had flourished, the thieves had jumped in, and more than a few fine, well manicured young ladies had had reason to flee attackers. But even so, I couldn't help but glancing at every dead, gaping doorway and window for attackers. Some people (fortunately few-many families had left to be with their militiamen as they dug graves) must have seen me leading the Varden to the Argard. If nothing else, a young woman with food in her hands would have attracted attention. And when they saw me emerging, without those soldiers, word would spread, and Bohemonda would be no more.

If Bohemonda was to end at my choosing rather than at the hands of a lynch mob, or-worse-a Romanorum punishment-I would have to escape this city, and quickly. But I could barely hobble along, stumbling down the endless cobbled streets, the buildings leaning over my head. Hunger and injury does that to a girl, you see, and I was barely spurred on to greater speed even when a trumpet sounded. Troops had to be arriving in, en masse with arrest warrants! Gritting my teeth, I ground on, leaning heavily on buildings and trying not to be buffeted away as crowds of people inevitably rushed towards the Argard. But I reached my lodgings, eventually.

As I fell through the front doors, I wanted many things. I wanted a hot bath, a good dinner, a soft bed; and there was a time when my lodgings offered all these things, for a merchant's wife lived (and still lives) in comfort. But the little garden, with the flowers I had so loved the sight of, had been given over to vegetables; and, as kindling ran out, we had had to use the bed as firewood. And so I, after taking a brief cat nap on my own doormat, decided to change my face.

It is a difficult thing to change a human face. You don't say a word and snap a finger. You have to visualize your own face with the greatest accuracy, to maintain that vision and, slowly but surely, with a constant incantation in the ancient language, warp it to your whims; and the energy it requires is colossal. Imagine constantly tearing a really, really thick piece of steak apart with your bare hands, to exact specifications, without damaging the steak permanently, whilst simultaneously memorizing the _Tapestry of Triumph_ down to its last detail, and providing a detailed dissertation about said tapestry. That gives you the gist of it. Now, try doing that when exhausted and famished.

The Black Hand's agents have many specialties, but my own has been in espionage; and, therefore, I was trained to train my skin. I could do it with my eyes shut, I could do it drunk, I could do it underwater, I had been trained to do it in any circumstance conceivable to the bizarre, sadistic imagination of my Master. Even after all that, I would never rank myself as the world's greatest skin changer. So you can appreciate that my attempt took four goes to get right (one of which ended up with me resembling nothing more than an Urgal), and after the final one I slept for a whole day. Even as boots thundered past my front door, voices shouting in harsh Latin or even more harshly accented Common, I slept.

And, when I woke, I immediately rose, tried to ignore the dreadful, growling ache in my stomach, passed off the pain in my gums as nothing unusual, and stripped off my dress to survey the results of the previous day's labours. Weeks ago, I would have gasped. Weeks ago, I would have been horrified at the ribs, and at the filth. Instead, I merely sighed, and fell into despair. How could I escape if I could barely walk? If I could…

But I dragged my mind out of such lines of thought, and forced it to concentrate on an escape. I spent the rest of the day wondering round, watching the hustle and bustle of city life, with particular reference to where the food was coming from, and where people were going to. I soon reached three main conclusions.

-That whatever food was present was focused around the Varden army. I realized this come breakfast, lunch and suppertime, when all Aroughs immediately stopped clearing the rubble, and wondered over to the soup kitchens being set up by frantic Varden officers. I know because I was among the people in the queues, falling nicely into my role as a woman of the lower orders, laying in at the rubble with a spade and trying to move it. The Varden soldiers did go on a bit about The Shadeslayers's Bounty as the doled out their ladlefuls of broth, in the midst of the ruins caused by His armies. But I drank, all the same.

-That the Army could well be leaving soon. There were rumours that Shadeslayer had left in a hurry, obviously meaning that he would soon be joining the Varden's armies again; therefore, his troops would be following shortly.

-And that, where the army went, food followed.

Therefore, leaving along with the Varden army would be a convenient method of escape. It was beyond my ability, especially when weakened to escape through the walls of Aroughs and the enemy siege works, filled with suspicious soldiers and arrest warrants, who would not take kindly to women leaving the city alone, and then to escape well fed soldiers, used to marching hard, over open country; especially when that open country still contained a great deal of raiding cavalrymen, who would be extremely pleased to find a lonely young woman running into the midst of their patrols. However, leaving alongside them would make me-anonymous. My face, although changed only slightly, would be perfectly anonymous amongst an army's camp followers, rather than alone on the road. Many Aroughs citizens, seeing that an army would always need people to clean its boots, wash its clothes, sell it coffee and tobacco, and serve the soldiers in all manner of ways, would be joining me. Nothing would be particularly odd about another woman joining in, even if she lacked a working woman's calloused hands; after all, Aroughs had definitely fallen on hard times, and so had all of its populace. Escaping from an Army would be another matter, but people always deserted. Especially when a large, powerful Imperial army was probably fairly close by.

I left my lodgings that night in a hooded cloak, with a bundle over my shoulder, having spent the day scavenging. The bundle contained some small coins, a waterskin, a good pair of boots, a mirror (a risk, I felt, but vital for skin changing, and not impossible for a washerwoman to possess) and, of course, my weapon.

I had only, before that day, been caught in hand to hand combat on two occasions. The second was against a monk who, suspecting his new assistant of delving too far into the contents of _The Dominance of Fate_, had thrown an ink pot at me and ran for his sword; this, as he was formerly a member of His Majesty's Eighth of the Line, was far more dangerous than I had expected. On both occasions, I had tried to ensure that I was equipped with a single-stick. It is not a Lady's weapon. It is not a Heroic weapon. But I am neither. I'm a girl who likes a weapon she can conceal, likes training she can apply to anything from a cudgel to a walking stick, and likes to do anything from knocking a man unconscious to dashing his skull open. In all these roles, the single-stick is ideal.

Oh, and the first time? It was before I joined the Black Hand. It is no concern of yours'. I prefer to regard it as no concern of mine.

So, there I was, stumbling through the dark towards the gates of Aroughs, thick with the smoke of watch fires and the moans of the bereaved. I soon found that I wasn't the only one. The rumour had been spreading that soon, the army would leave. Wagons had been seen packing up, the brothels had filled for a few last nights of desperate pleasure, and assorted men in formidably plumed helmets had been running back and forth, cursing loudly and brandishing pieces of paper at troops, who sullenly trudged off to Gods know where. Why did I believe them to be sullen? Their expressions, their demeanours-and the guards of the gates of Aroughs, who, as an example of our supposed Liberators, did not seem most pleased at their stay in our fine city.

They were all Varden soldiers, perhaps two dozen strong; and against them was a mass of humanity, of all ages, all shapes, all sizes, all trying to escape from the necropolis of Aroughs with any job, no matter how small. The two dozen stood there, yawning and shivering in their armour, probably none of them having even seen Aroughs before conquering it, or build a fishing boat, or even understand our accents, and were obviously expected to distinguish between a Friend of The Varden and Liberty, and a potential Fiendish Imperial Spy.

All things considered, looking back I'm surprised that they did so well. It is easy to be kind to them now, of course. But not then. Not then, with the sun slowly rising, belly aching as much as your legs and the crowd growling twice as loud, demanding that they pass. Every child turned into some spoiled brat who deserved a good hard knocking as they stared, monkey like, up from their mothers' breasts. (Certainly not food, damn them!) Every man was immediately spat at, cursed at, sworn at, decried as a member of the Black Hand by his former neighbor, and, of course, entirely undeserving of that crust you're chewing on, kind sir, yes… And the women-

A forest of babies was held aloft, each with a more piteous tale than the last. It has been said by some that we are a gentle sex; I would have thought myself living proof of that, myself, but that rabble would be another. We pushed, elbowed, dragged, kicked, prodded, and bit with the best of them on that day. How I emerged, I couldn't say; training is one thing, but a lack of food and magic use is quite another.

Actually, that is a lie. I emerged like the rest of them. I pushed, and elbowed, and dragged and kicked and all the rest of it. I had no baby to wave. I was cursed at like the rest of them, condemned as a spy by the jealous, but there was just the thin line of shouting shields, and the bread behind them. By the King, I was a bitch that day. We all were. But I got to the front of the mass. Many, I daresay, did not, as the winter set in, and rations were thinned, and rethinned, until on one cold day the Varden garrison used colder steel to drive back a grain riot.

Our gardener, I believe, died there. Bryan was his name. A good man, who liked his food, and his wine, and the smell of foxgloves most of all. I shall remember him laughing with his shears as I sat, in the shade under the old oak tree, riffling through my notes. But the manner of his death-slit open in a shrunken belly, the report had said-makes it difficult.

"Right." The soldier yawned expansively, before hastily stiffening to attention as a plumed helmet turned. "Name?"

"Marette of Aroughs."

"Right. Right-SILENCE, THE LOT OF YOU! QUIET! WAIT YOUR TURN!" Some baby or other had started howling. "Right. You don't know your age-oh, you do!"

"Nineteen."

"Right. A bloody rarity, in this lot, if you'd beg my pardon." He touched his helmet in salute. "Right… SHUT THE FUCK UP, DAMN YOU- Right, so what can you offer this army?"

I adopted the blank, desperate look of the wealthy in sudden need of practical skills. "I can… sew, I suppose. NO, NOT JUST LIES ABOUT MY FRIENDS, YOU BASTARD… my apologies."

"And mine. We'll get a mage out if your lot don't calm down." The soldier's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "Right. Many can sew. Many can wash clothes. Can you write?"

"I can, yes."

"Right." There was a pause. He took in my face; still smooth, the teeth still good, the body-not swollen by childbirth-under the filthy dress I was wearing. "You're in. Move along."

I never did know if they got that mage, but I couldn't help but thinking that they needed one, as the shouting intensified from the thin purple line.

Marching. What is there to say about it? You get to your feet, groggily, aware that your failure to pack a tent, coupled with last night's rain, will shortly lead to your collapsing and choking from consumption, or drowning in the mud with the rest of the arse end of the army as it slogs along. The Imperial Highway has had much use in the summer, with troops marching up and down, up and down-but now, you see, the peasants had spent the summer being chased up and down, up and down, dodging forage parties and recruiting sergeants alike. No corvee for them, which meant the pride of the Varden was choked in filth, down to the last wagon wheel as it squelched along, axle squealing into the cold, foggy air. It was still autumn; but, as the summer had rolled on, the Gods had decided that it was time to stop scorching us poor humans, and to give them a good, long cool down in the shade as a special treat. Damn them.

Damn the Gods, but love the food. The army's tail generally wrapped around the Romanorum camp, as they would always rise with better discipline and regularity; besides, none of us suspicious Imperial citizens thought they were the type to knife us in the dark. Cutting us up at daytime, yes, but their armour was far too shiny, and their ranks too drill straight, for night work! Besides, they were all stupid barbarians. Couldn't speak common without spitting half the consonants out wrong ("Fanky a game of di-kay?" one of their Kenturiones asked a Varden officer one evening, much to our amusement.) Couldn't mount a horse proper, and regarded a stirrup as a work of magic. Didn't know the least bit about how to run a farm, either. I remember the march being halted one day, just so as the Roman Legatus, and a bunch of formidably bearded soldiers, could wonder round a relatively intact village, with the Legatus making an important sounding speech about some "Kahto" or other, and they stared-_stared!_-at our ploughs, and poked and prodded at an innocent draught horse waiting expectantly for oats. No, they're only good at war. Too honest, too blunt, too stupid to lie to us!

We asked. We formed our queues, we proffered our thin hands, and we received from a squad led by a man called Strabo, who, aside from an alarming habit of feeding tidbits to a massive dog which snarled and snapped from under the table, was otherwise perfect as his job. Breakfast alone was meat (mostly beef), cheese and good, Imperial bread; yes, it was baked in round loaves rather than the trusty, long, thin "pike sticks", but it was good enough for us. Even wine! A veritable paradise for the starving, so we tore at it to the last string around our teeth. We stared up, begging for more in our halting latin; sometimes, some child, or whore, would receive.

And then we marched.

My duties were simple: to generally march along in close proximity to Varden officers, and write down whatever they needed. I was a spy. I tried to play the role as best I could, clutching a quill I had snatched from somewhere, hurrying along hopefully, trying to snatch some work, any work at all, as the Varden walked their horses along, leaving a trail of hoofprints, tobacco smoke, and shit. I planted on my most eager expression; the face I had adopted had one of those mouths, perpetually bow shaped, that looked like a smile even when I was shivering under a tattered, "borrowed" cloak. A few had work to do (all very dry-mostly forms to do with acquiring dwindling food rations for troops, and nothing for Imperial Military Intelligence), some laid bets on whether I could keep up, for I was a skinny little thing, some tossed food over anyway (small morsels, but I took them anyway.)

But, most of the time, it was slogging along, one foot in front of the other, shoes clutched in one hand (they would wear out if I wore them for too long, you see), pack shouldered in the other. The train went along just in front of the senior officers, and just behind the engineers and surveyors responsible for choosing the next campsite. I suppose that this should have been a good thing; the engineers were meant to repair the road as we went along, but most of the army's building equipment had gone into the works at Aroughs, and the poor place had scarcely been able to yield more, and in any case struggling along a road barefoot requires tougher soles than mine. Worse, the scout cavalry went in front, meaning that we had to treat on their mess also. I suppose that the dedicated agent in me should have been trying to pick up some intelligence or other; but, as I said, they seemed to be keeping the best bits to their most trusted secretaries, rather than some Aroughs street rat, and they spoke in Latin half the time anyway. We walked on, through empty, skeletal villages and over rolling hills, each steeper than the last, the road ever fuller with wheel ruts, hoof prints and, occasionally, corpses; these were swiftly pushed off the road by the vanguard, but there they remained, in the gorgeous livery of the Surdan Royal Guard, or in the draining red of the Imperial Horse, and the rotting flesh of the dead soldier, abandoned to the world.

But it was the evenings I remember most. Not just for the meals, although these were substantial if we got to the Romanorum in time. We Imperials, as one, avoided their offers of _garum _(fishy foreign filth, in all respects), but made up for it with much the same as breakfast, only in larger portions. No, the departures are what spring to mind. All around us, a couple of hours after every dawn, would be utter chaos. Soldiers would be parading, the mouths of their officers constantly cavernous as they struggled to get them into ranks. The dawn chorus, tweetling away like a wind chime on a breeze, would have been replaced with the wholly different sound of an army's horses, mules, oxen and packmen struggling to rouse themselves, defecate, strain against burdens, extricate their wheels from the mud, and be dragged by weeping, swearing drivers away from last minute couplings. A magic user would usually emerge from a tent brandishing a scrying bowl, the musicians would be testing their instruments for any water or mud (there always was, giving them a wholly different timbre when the marching songs began), Strabo's dog would have bitten some Kenturion up the kilt, and the whole thing would usually have descended into anarchy, without the King's Guiding Hand to keep it in check. But, among the camp followers, all was relatively quiet. As some of us swarmed over the wagons, the rest remained quiet, huddled in our little groups, waiting for the off. Those who had tobacco shared it out. Those with children sought out those with wagons or artillery carriages to place them on ("I'll never have my sprog on one of those dirty things", I remember some mother or other saying as a ballista passed by; after three days of said sprog wondering along the road bawling its head off after having its shoes stolen, she thought a little differently.) The Romanorum slaves would squat on the ground, waiting for the soldiers to give them food. Varden wagoneers would occasionally toss morsels down to them with encouraging smiles; these were mostly accepted, but eaten with incredible swiftness. If one of the Romanorum Militays was to find them, he would be allowed to take it with impunity, and inflict whatever punishment he wished-far worse than our slaves! Such, at least, was what I was told. Someone would usually start singing, a song about home, or the road ahead, and we would join, for the moment forgetting that the road ahead would be longer and harder than any song could convey in our own voices. I have always loved listening to people singing well, and have often tried to learn it myself. I could rarely hear the results in those departures, for my voice always melded into the general, melodious mass. But it was a beautiful enough thing. Even the Varden wives joined in; a little, heavily armed group standing apart from us, deposited here by a Legatus who considered them to be more or less equal to the slaves. We had all heard the rumours, of course: that they fought alongside the men, striking from the shadows, burning our bounteous, fertile women alive and gelding any man they captured, but they sang well enough that day, even if they wore chainmail and bows. And, through it all, a little man would walk. I never did learn his name, or even whether he was Varden or Romanorum, but he wore a black cloak and a short, dark brown beard. He would walk along from wagon to wagon, handing out cups of tea from a seemingly bottomless flask (perhaps it was-I never sent my mind out then, for fear of magical detection), and would ask: "All set?" to each wagon, then to each group of us. "All set? All set? All set?" He would nod, smile, and move on, from an artillery commander in full dress armour to a washer woman, arms and waist bulging in equal measure, quill flicking across checklist. Why I remember him so vividly, I cannot say, because he was so… normal. But he was there. And, when he was done, he would stride over to the senior officers with a rare dignity, the trumpets would blare, and the army would begin its march again.

I'll tell you, then, what put a stop to this routine.

We had been on the march for perhaps two weeks. The weather seemed to be turning to the even worse, with a slicing of sleet added into the rain. The road, which the scouts had assured us was "more than passable", was of course the exact opposite, so, quite naturally, an ambulance became stuck in the road.

How it was stuck, none could say. The driver, a Surdan, remained true to his nature by gesticulating wildly in an incomprehensible accent. The artillery crew behind him, Romans, remained true to their nature by shoving at it angrily and shouting in an incomprehensible language, with slaves hurrying desperately over, wringing their hands. The wounded men in the back, Varden, remained true to their nature by tossing food to the slaves, which of course earned them a beating, and remaining under the canvas to avoid any proper work, perhaps knowing well how little they could do outside it. The oxen, true to their nature, stood placidly and watched the chaos around them-and then the axle snapped.

This brought the entire column to a halt in that narrow mud hole of a road, not that much of it minded. It had been a hard morning, and the sight of senior officers panicking about something made good entertainment. Crests, plumes, braid and canes flew everywhere, swords were brandished manfully, horses reared and kicked in the wind, and the common squatted sat down, removed their packs, and mostly fell asleep.

"What now then?" I asked. I was standing just behind the mass of wagons when the halt came.

"Simple," someone said, a literate man in an extremely shabby cloak, who called himself Rod. "We doss too." So he did, curling his cloak around him and throwing himself onto the road.

I remained in my slouch, and decided to put my shoes on; the road was too bad to make much of a difference. In doing so, I continued to watch the world go by, under my brows. Everything seemed normal. A bunch of toddlers sitting in a circle, a couple of adults reciting the alphabet. A gutted windmill, high above us on a hill, a very damp dove sitting on top. Two soldiers playing dice, I couldn't tell where they were from; both wore tunics heavily patched with Imperial cloth, and their armour looked to be mail of some sort or other. Someone nibbling at a biscuit. A cavalryman trotting his horse back down the column, a crossbow bolt in the haunch.

No, that wasn't normal. Not in the slightest. I watched the man intently, as he dismounted and ran towards the senior officers, brandishing a black fletched arrow. The vanguard, then. I had been observant enough for that. What little cavalry the Varden had left was galloping their tired horses around searching for our troops, not that an army leaves such a small trace of its passing. Searching for something to avoid.

The officers congregated around him in a little knot, talking intently. Fearing the scrutiny of the others, I looked up. Anything. Ah, yes, that windmill. Wonder who burned it, eh? Surdan or Romanorum or Imperial, or some fire arrow or magic bolt from either-

The dove was gone.

I blinked, and looked around. The dove was vanished, I couldn't see it anywhere. I looked around, craning my neck to see over the crowd. The land, apart from that windmill, was all hills and grass, and a few dead in a heap. And…

I had no choice but to stand, bolt upright, in the middle of a dense target, and wait for the bowstrings to be loosed.

Crossbows thumped, and the air was alive with bolts raining down; but the sudden, panicked screams of us drowned that out.

How had they hidden? I still don't know. Magic helped, probably, especially when the Varden had only a tired blue elf and a couple of exhausted Path Wonderings to help scout out, and the Imperials had an entire army's magic users to borrow. But I knew that, in the midst of the amateurish, bungling mess of farmhands and convicts who made up most of the army, there were a few who had spent decades of their lives pursuing Varden raiders across the Empire. These men knew how to hide, and how to track, and how to shoot. How had they kept their strings dry? Probably the same reasons.

Then, all scared me equally. I dropped flat, but not before watching the man in the frayed cloak moan softly and pitch over, grasping at the ground, as a bolt thudded into his belly. His blood seeped out, washed to pinkness by the cold and rain.

Trumpets and bugles blared, boots pounded, men shouted, and steel was drawn in a mass. The wounded men in the ambulance were yelling madly, at least one of them was hit, and I could hear blades clashing somewhere, and thundering hooves, shod in steel. That jerked us into action. One girl with a stick was no match for an armed soldier, and well she knew it. She was up and running for dear life towards the rear, where the main body of the infantry was marching, now struggling to their feet and readying weapons. Some followed her, and the some turned into a flood. Officers, struggling to ride to units, to coordinate the column, to do anything, beat at us with the flats of their swords, but we pressed on. Something whipped past my cheek, probably a stone, possibly a bolt, and then the dull realization that the Romanorum cohort, forming a solid infantry square in front of us, wasn't about to let us in. Not with Imperial cavalry surging forward, knee to booted knee. So I turned and tried to run the other way, shouldering and jabbing my way through the mass, and ran, and ran, past the ambulance (which was tipped over in the stampede of the baggage), and ran…

I gather, from what I learned afterwards, that the Imperial horse tried a brief attack, obviously to disorder the column, and were repelled by well disciplined infantry squares, which continued to doggedly march down the road, the meager Varden force of archers, along whatever cavalry they could scratch together, struggling to hold back the swarms of crossbows which shot volley after volley at them. That probably happened in some retired soldier-chronicler's armchair, but I remember little of that order. I remember running for dear life down the road, always praying that there would be some of our vanguard galloping back to help, or that there would be somewhere to hide, and I remember being followed by the mass of our camp followers, of which so many had joined purely to eat, not to risk life and limb at all. I remember wagons tipped or galloping, artillery being unlimbered by frantic crews, occasional crossbow bolts whizzing into us, and all the while officers and sergeants shouting until their throats were raw. "FORM RANKS! CLOSE UP! HOLD TO REPEL! CLOSE UP…"

I never knew how many of us simply panicked and fled the army altogether, or got lost, but I only stopped running when an entire troop of Surdan horse was bearing down on us, sabers drawn and bloodied, their Captain at their head and calling that it was safe, we could return to our vehicles, to our station, anything to stem the rout. But there was little use for any attempt at getting us to move back down the road again, for the army was now marching as quickly as it could, shedding unnecessary weight as it went. Our leaden feet felt as light as feathers, and we joined in with a rare eagerness, even though the wind now cut like a Forsworn's sword. The Empire attacked my area three times more that day, probably far more in other sectors, and the Milites formed their fish scales at least twice when a twig cracked, or the sentries found some sign of Imperial presence. It was a day that only ended in a village, with the name of Stahrnabad.

It was a little place, on a hill, with a well and an alehouse, and long abandoned cornfields. Already, the Romanorum were setting up their stakes, digging their trenches, and we joined in fervently. But I had decided, at some point that I would escape that night.

Not a difficult decision to make. The army had been shedding camp followers already, and I knew a number of words which would alert the Black Hand to my presence. Why had I not done this before? Well, it was simple; I hadn't expected our cavalry to attack when I was sitting in the safety of Aroughs, looking at those mighty siege lines, rather than a palisade that was sinking into the mud being set up around an army far too big for it, with red tuniced cavalrymen openly watching from the next hill through their telescopes.

I worked with my bare hands at the trench, lacking a spade, and there not being enough to go around. I worked until night fall, where I gratefully took a chunk of bread in my raw hands, nails broken and covered in muck, and just sat, waiting, leaning against the remains of a barn. Skeletons remained there now, completely stripped of flesh, skin, everything.

As for the villagers? I could probably find out. I really, really didn't want to.

At midnight, the Imperial cavalry attacked by the light of torches and magic. By the light of the moon, the stars, and a handful of guttering lanterns, the Varden met them; many jars of pitch had been abandoned on the march as their wagon caught fire.

I was falling into a doze when the shouts began, and immediately awoke, found a bucket being forced into my hands, and was told to head for the gate. Which gate? The soldier shrugged despairingly. "Any gate!" he shouted, squinting at me, and I realized he was Strabo. "Why not mine?" So I followed him to his unit, still mustering. The camp was a crowd of people, too crowded, all crushed together. Soldiers had to batter their way through en masse to get to their stations, tripping over our wagons all the while, and then our dead as the crossbows opened.

"How many of those bastard woodpeckers do they have out there?" a Varden captain wondered aloud as he strung his longbow. "So close!" The night sky was darker still with bolts.

"Snuck up," someone said pointlessly.

"Those gangling sword-babes! Sneak! No, magery at work, hold the line, I can see that pipe you're smoking Corporal Topher, cut it out!" The Captain raised his bow and shot over the palisade.

Neither side could see the enemy very well, so the arrows, with clear hindsight, did little. But, as usual, I didn't have clear hindsight, so I could only stand there and wait for them to start shooting fire arrows, and listen to the dying.

Time passed.

And a mounted officer galloped over, gabbling away in Latin. The gates swung open, and the Cohort formed up. Shields were raised into their fish scales and, as one, it advanced. I, sensing my chance, followed.

They were probably being sent forward to flush out the crossbows, and there were no cavalry to spare. And, for a time, it seemed to work as I crouched behind them, tip toeing along in the darkness. They gave a great howl of rage, made a great, pounding, slipping run down the hill, and the shooting seemed to stop. They cheered.

And the Kenturion, walking in front of them, raised his palm flat. The same gesture in all languages. Halt.

They did, feet stamping down in unison, shields rising up, their javelins pressed to shoulders.

I stared around-what had the Kenturion seen? And then I heard it. Hoofbeats, in hundreds.

"Kataphract!" someone shouted, and there was an almighty rattling as their shield wall tightened, and the javelins raised. "Kataphract!" I could see it suddenly, glittering in their solitary lantern; a wall of horse and steel, thundering up the hill, lances leveled.

The riders were in perfect silence, sitting astride steel horses, faceless in their full plate, which was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all. A simple machine, crashing right at us. Through this mud? How-

Ah. I noticed a black hood. Magic.

I froze on the spot, and could only watch the javelin volley, and then the wave of steel, rolling straight into the Milites.

I ran for it.

I ran down the hill, hoping the Cohort would hold the cavalry. I ran, and shouted every codeword I knew, and flinched as bolts-or arrows, I couldn't tell-whizzed by, and ducked and dodged past every silhouette in the darkness, some reaching out, some brandishing weapons. I ran, dodged, ducked, and eventually fell, sprawling right down the mud, only coming to a halt when I crashed into-something.

Light danced before my eyes as I shook my head. What happened? I then realized that, whatever I had crashed into had reared up and snorted. A horse!

And a rider.

"What the fuck?" he asked in good, honest, northern Imperial, and I almost wept for relief.

"I serve the King," I replied in the Ancient Language. "I serve the King. I serve…"

"Oh, sweet…" He, perhaps, vaguely recognized the word "King", and that was enough. "How did you get here?"

"I ran."

"Through the battle?" I nodded. "We were in loose order, and it was dark, but…" He still stared. "What the-"

"I need your horse, alright? I serve the King."

The rider was a tall, heavyset, bearded man, who gave me a cautious glance. "Wait here, I'll get a…"

"A what, Private Lugo?" a voice asked.

"An agent of His Majesty's Black Hand." The rider snapped to attention.

"How fortunate you are, then. You have one!" A figure loomed out of the dark, all dark cloak and hood. "And who is this?"

"I serve the King…"

"Is the Thorn bright?" he replied in the ancient language.

"The fire dims, but will be lit anew."

An almost imperceptible nod under the hood. "Your Master?"

"Preceptor Montiock." Not his real name, of course. I knew that, but that's another story entirely.

Another nod. "I know another of his former apprentices. A good Master. Your mission?"

"To escape."

"Who from?"

"This whole city!" I reached into my mind, and brought my old case of tax evasion to the forefront, so long ago. "This whole province!" I may have wept then, out of frustration.

"You were at Aroughs." An almost approving note crept into his excellently accented Ancient Language. "I was, and am, with the cavalry. What do you need?"

"A fast horse. Food. Fodder. Water. A tent." And much else besides, no doubt.

The hooded man glanced over at Private Lugo. "He has all those, I think. And something of use…" He pulled a scroll of parchment from his sleeve, and handed it to me. "A letter of introduction. It would be a shame, I think, if our soldiers were to dispatch a promising young spy. A true shame. Do you wish to rest?"

I did not, so Lugo forfeited his livelihood at the word of the Black Hand, and I was off again. I didn't ride far that night, sleeping by a stream, in which I washed the next morning.

I then rode hard for four days, directly to the North. To Feinster.

It was a dull ride, to a dull city. The horse was fast, and his food more than adequate.

But the arrival, though, was another matter. I arrived under another alias of mine (who I will not reveal), and stumbled into the first inn I could find, saddlesore and utterly spent. Lugo had some coin, so I lodged in a cheap room with a fireplace-and then, almost on a whim, did an old trick. I held the letter over the fireplace.

And laughed for, sure enough, letters began to appear on the other side. Letters in brown. Lemon juice-a crude method. I felt almost disappointed at the sender, but it was obviously written in haste. I settled on the flea ridden bed, squinted into the candle light, and read.

"Scrying is a wonderful thing. I saw a girl-like you-running from Aroughs. Your magical defences-not wonderful. Penetrated right through to confirm! Hope you found our lines, know you will get this letter-magic communications are even more wonderful. Hope you acted as per nature, and decided to rush ahead to Feinster. Attend to yourself at the Appleton. Yours', M."

"Oh, Montiock," I breathed to myself. "You bastard. You utter bastard." And laughed all the harder. My Master did like to look out for his pupils. So I spent the night at the inn, ate its stew-the wonder of a hot meal!-and spent the next morning ambling around in the weakening late autumn sunlight, looking for the Appleton.

I was amazed even further. This turned out to be Feinster's theatre; closer inspection revealed that another of my aliases had apparently booked a ticket there with the groundlings. I remembered doing no such thing; it must have been Montiock, must have been! How like him! Closer inspection widened my grin even further.

I have always liked singing, but I'll never forget what Montiock did for me. The old spymaster, who had doubtless pitched hundreds of men into the dungeons and tortured them to the last breath, who had poisoned a hundred glasses of wine and executed a thousand men for mongering panic, had put on something of a show. I stood in the yard, having spent the rest of the day sewing and cleaning my dress into something approaching respectability (and ending up looking like a fishwife-but, at least, one which had eaten recently), and looked on in admiration as the much renowned Bellatonan Quartet, the "Larks on the Wing", stepped onto the stage to triumphant applause in their motley, and began to sing.

It was all wonderful stuff, made all the more poignant by the fact that two of their members were soon to be conscripted, so it was their last laugh. It began with something light and cheerful about a dragonet which had lots its tail, with a series of wonderful, piping love songs in the middle, and a long, towering anthem at the end, celebrating our noble, ever victorious armies and their valiant stand against the spreading Elves to the North. The audience stood, cheered, laughed, heckled as their jester impersonated Shadeslayer by mincing around poking his dummy with a tiny, tiny sword, even wept at times. I believe that I drunk no less than four glasses of mulled wine that evening, spent part of it in the arms of a rich, slightly wounded officer of the Hussars (I emerged from that encounter with a mysteriously empty piece of paper down my bodice, which I vowed to heat up next morning), and ended it singing along to the final chorus, the audience with their hands clasped to their breasts. All of it punctuated by the antics of the aforementioned wonderful jester, who even made off with the mayor's hood in the interval, to the delighted laughter of we groundlings as the old man hurried onto the stage in hot, giggling pursuit.

I suppose, then, that you want some noble consideration of how I could be making merry whilst good men died at the front, or some such high feeling. But all I could think then was what a fine thing it was that I was here, with a full belly, in good cheer and company, in a peaceful city. Yes, what a fine thing, I thought as I crashed into bed, and passed out, someone's face powder still on my nose.

_Romanorum:_ "Romans" in Latin. According to an internet translator, anyway.

_Tapestry of Triumph_: An Imperial equivalent of the Bayeux Tapestry, depicting Galbatorix crushing the riders. This includes, coincidentally, him kicking Vrael in the "fork of his legs". His expression, caught as it is with great detail, is often theorized to have been a form of comic relief for the hard worked weavers.

_Understand our accents_: This is somewhat exaggerated in our modern depictions of the Middle Ages as a backward, brutal, ignorant mud hole (see how the word "medieval" is used to describe the Taliban's social policies-we are reluctant to acknowledge that this modern world of ours' is just as home to tyranny, brutality and war as that of Richard the Lionheart, and so scorn it as something of the past. An interesting tangent, but somewhat beside the point), but, nevertheless, the average medieval peasant would have had a limited knowledge of the outside world. Fantasy novels have a habit of going too far in the opposite direction, so it's time to set this straight. On the one hand, times of war had a habit of drawing soldiers from across the country together, and when they marched through villages, they inevitably talked. For example, English peasants would probably have a vague knowledge of where France was, along with most European countries, as well as that there were places called the Holy Land, Jerusalem, and so on, all to the East. On the other hand, apart from going to market or (very occasionally) making pilgrimages, the same peasant wouldn't have travelled that far from his home. One result of this was that regional accents were extremely thick (English accents from one part of the country could be mistaken as French in another), and remained so more or less until TV and the Radio arrived to spread their homogenized voices across the world.

Corvee: A French term, and I apologize for it, but it rolls off the tongue far more easily than "feudal labour". "Corvee" was the service a serf/peasant (or whatever) owed his Lord, in this case in the form of physical work, in return for the Lord's obligation to protect his people. Historically, it took many forms, including the maintenance of roads. Needless to say, the serf's lot in life was not a good one; but something the fanficcers rarely mention once the Empire's wicked, oppressive regime is torn down, is how it is replaced. This (as well as other political/economic/social decisions) will probably be of more importance to the Common people than, say, the marriage of the protagonists, or one of them sailing away with the elves, so it probably deserves some thought. CP doesn't explicitly mention it (sigh), so the humble fanfictioneer once again steps in. Perhaps, though, I have little business doing so, as Carvahall seems to exist in a curious vacuum from feudalism. They farm their own plots, sell their own crops, and have nothing being set aside for their Lord. Does Feudalism even exist in the Empire? Debatable, but I'm saying it does, so that's that.

Kahto: Flaccus was presumably saying something about Cato the Elder, a Roman soldier, statesman, stoic, and agronomist. ("When the elder Cato was asked about what he thought was the most profitable way of utilizing one's resources, he replied, 'Grazing livestock successfully'; what second to that, 'Grazing livestock fairly successfully'; what third, 'Grazing livestock unsuccessfully'; what fourth, 'Raising crops.' When his questioner asked, 'What about money-lending?', Cato replied, 'What about murder?'" Cicero _On Duties _2.89.) (For the record: Anne doesn't know this, but Flaccus was explaining to them about the bounty of this new, Imperial land they had conquered, and how excellent it would be to set up some farms for veterans on.)

As ever, I'll use this to go off on a vaguely relevant tangent. People often see the Medieval period as a sort of ugly, brutish tangent between the glories of the classical world, and the wonders of the Renaissance. A sort of witch burning, woman hating, Muslim slaughtering, Christ loving interlude between Leonardo Da Vinci and Lycurgus, in which no useful progress was made of any sort apart from in crude knights rampaging around cutting people up. There is, definitely, a gem of truth in this. After all, with the collapse of the Western Roman Empire, there no massive centralized government over the entirety of Western Europe. The aqueducts decayed, the towns were buried in dust, which turned to mud, and then to more layers of earth. The Roman Forum itself, once the proud heart of Roman government and debate, was used for cattle grazing.

But to say that there was precisely no progress between the year 476 AD and around 1500 is also untrue. (The Renaissance has much to answer for in its attitude to the middle ages.) To use my example: farming. Medieval agricultural yields were greatly improved compared to their Roman equivalents, due to a variety of innovations. Special farm horses were bred, horse collars developed, horseshoes utilized, oats cultivated to feed the horses, and three field crop rotation. By the 12th century, productivity had increased up by about 50 per cent due to these innovations. Now, none of this is as glamorous as the Colosseum, or as powerful as a marching Legion, or as stirring as any of Cicero's rhetoric; but it was probably far more beneficial for a European farmer than any of those ever would have been (only to, admittedly, have quite a bit of it taken away by feudal dues, or possibly looted by an invading army, and then there's the problem of population growth which was only cut off by the Black Death in the 14th century. But these problems weren't exactly absent from the classical world either-well, apart from massive population growth. Neither was there a lack of bigotry, massacre and patriarchy back then.) Still: Romans are cool. Yes. I've got to keep this in mind. This isn't so difficult, it must be said.

Oh, and while on the subject: di-kay is supposed to be "dice" via a horribly mangled Latin accent (or, at least, a Roman reading "dice" on a page, which is probably rather unlikely considering how most of the Legion was probably learning Latin-word of mouth-but never mind.) It's probably making the Latinists reading this cringe en masse.

Fish scales: Testudo formation.

Finally: to end on a Christmassy theme…

_It's December but despite that all Rome is at fever-pitch! Unrestricted festive fun at the state's expense has been given free license. The row of preparations on an enormous scale is reverberating everywhere. It all creates the impression that the Saturnalia holiday is different from the average workin__g day.__ But there is now no difference at all, to the extent that the man who once said December used to be just a month long but is now a year long was spot-on in my view. _Seneca, Letters, 18.1._g day._

MERRY CHRISTMAS! Please review! I worked up until after 1 in the morning for this, you lucky readers, so I expect something in return! (Oh, and I'm sorry if my female hero seems a bit… wimpy. On the other hand, she is a spy. Spies aren't supposed to stand up mano a mano against soldiers. She is also famished. She will get better later, trust me.)


	14. IV: Insanity

So, I had a long author's note, re read it, and found that it made absolutely no sense. I also found that this was last updated some time in January, which obviously won't do at all. As you may have noticed, the pace for this is… slowing down. Greatly. Like many other stories of mine, in both FF and FP, I promised updates, which never materialised. Why has it slowed? Firstly-I have difficulty, for some reason, writing fiction at university. Secondly- exams and work (although heaven knows a Fresher gets relatively little) got in the way. Thirdly- I caught the RPG bug. This means that, probably, a great deal of my creative energies in the next semester will be taken up with writing plot for games (Dark Heresy, but my own Edwardian style setting), rather than returning to my hapless Romans out here. This isn't helped by me leaving the great majority of my Roman history books, as well as the Inheritance Cycle, behind for reasons of space when moving into a new student house. (Please take this into consideration when reading this chapter-it is mostly without research. It is also mostly 'improvised', with little proper planning.) Finally-I had, at the outset, no idea where I wanted to finish this story, meaning that the first major plot thread-the Aroughs siege-has drained out, without all that much planned to replace it. (Well, that's not quite true, as you'll see in this chapter… but there are isolated scenes in my mind, which have nothing attached to them in plot terms.)

But, nevertheless, I'll promise you this. For all my often expressed issues with the series, when the next Inheritance book comes out, I will read it; and, if any interesting threads emerge there for me to hang on, I will do so as much as possible. If the mood takes me before then, I'll write more chapters; but this seems unlikely. As for writing this chapter now? Well, I had a scene, with promise in it. It seems a shame to leave it hanging.

Finally, finally: I'm throwing this one open to you, readers. If you want to add any characters (canon or not, Roman or not), any plot twists, anything-I'm in urgent need of ideas. Speak, and they will be incorporated. Or, at least, considered.

"_The noblest kind of retribution is not to become like your enemy." Marcus Aurelius, Meditations_

_My dear Anne_, the letter had read. _I am afraid to tell you that the King's dearest daughter has gone quite mad._

"Let all citizens know that the thunder of victory will sound across the land!" The officer raised his hat, to the roll of drums.

"We march! We march! We march!" And, behind him, the Royal Guard advanced.

Uru'baen was always reckoned to be the jewel of the Empire. Even Bellatona, the city of canals and glasswork, was first built by a man, with all humanity's sloth, clumsiness and inclination to move onto the harvest in crucial stages of construction. Not so in this ancient fortress of the Elves; and especially not on this day, of all days! Every last white column had been scrubbed clean, and they had an almost golden glow about them as they towered into the sunrise.

_Mad! This is not a code word. I remember well that you pissed your ink across the parchment in your days of youth whenever I even mentioned cryptography to you; so I must confirm this. _I could imagine the bushy eyebrows waggling in delight, and remember the cane even more so.

Heads poked out of shutters; and the cheers began, drowning out even the legendary dawn chorus of Uru'baen. Exotic birds of all types, from Surda to the distant Spine, cackled in complaint, but broke off as the Guard's Black Hand took notice. No one saw them tumbling away into the wind, or even complained, for they had a greater display before them than any mere beast could offer.

Those in the upper windows of buildings, among the tallest in all the Empire, were just about level with the heads of the pikes, polished to perfection like a river, among them the bouncing, colourful, secure islands of their banners. And the men beneath them! Pale northern giants, sturdy townsmen, quick faced men from the south, not a man under six feet in height or with less than a thousand crowns to his name, for the Guards accepted nothing but the best. The officers, riding their great barded destriers in their finest plate, shone out more like gods than men. And then the flowers started to rain, plucked by lovestruck maidens, or else tossed out in basketfuls by discreet little men in dark cloaks with the King's livery burned into their minds.

_His Majesty, you see, has many sons and daughters; how many is a state secret, because only he can keep count. And what does this kindly, doting father do to his offspring? Shower them with all the world's bounty, of course; but there are so many of the little bastards-I use the term literally, in the most part-that this can tax even our fair land's resources, and they seem to take a long time to die, doubtless due to His Majesty's immeasurable virility and the expense piled onto his healers. By the time anyone noticed this, they were usually far too old to be accidentally smothered under a pillow, and the intervention of our people often involved multiple wings of some hapless country estate getting blasted apart in the resulting duels. (Difficult to see how an inexplicable case of fever shattered those crystal windows and tore down his Lordship's new observatory, I'm sure you'll agree; but the natural sciences are a fine thing, and our new physicians will doubtless do their best!) So His Majesty made a momentous decision that, in the Eighty Seventh Year of the Reign of King Galbatorix, First of His Name, his blessed progeny will from hereon actually work for their livings._

The Royal Guard took three hours to make their progress through the Plaza of Victory, marching in the shadow of the statues of the Forsworn and their beasts, accepting the salute of the Staff and the waves of the Gentlemen of the City; and then down the precipitous King's Way, cleared especially for the occasion, before ending their heroic march in the suburbs. Their real exit from the city would take place that night, in dark, without their needlessly long parade pikes, and only with a single gold epaulette on each brick red shoulder to mark them out as the Guard, rather than the small mountain of braid and frogging each man had had to sweat under before. But now, at least, they retained under their glamour as they valiantly sauntered over to the alehouses.

_And what does this have to do with us, you might rightly ask. Well, the king's dearest daughter, presumably dearest in the expense of her physic, has spent too much time reading, and listening to bards. She yearns for the life of the wild rogue, dashing around in a great dark cloak and listening to the secrets of the Varden in warm comfort-perhaps falling into the arms of some suspiciously handsome wild rogue herself, although I of course an in no position to comment on the wishes of our most excellent royalty. Your task, now, is quite simple. You shall meet with a commoner known as…_

One of these alehouses went by the name of the _Cat's Cauldron_; and it was overflowing rapidly. Within the carefully whitewashed walls was a bubbling, joshing, seething stew of guardsmen, the barmaids and the bawds alike stirring it, with songs and poems being sprinkled in judicious amounts by a number of competing troubadours. But strangely, one of the most thoroughly overwhelmed figures in there was an old woman, of uncertain identity, who was busily knitting a great pile of socks, and repairing any well hidden blemishes in the mens' uniforms; the officers, it seemed, gave this their backs, instead sniffing delicately at some of the songs wafting out of the shutters.

A handful, though, mostly exquisitely uniformed young gentlemen, hair curled and oiled to perfection, ventured into the midst. They listened to a moment-I say, Blackworth, the dam' croaky bitch has started singing again!-and, speaking to the innkeeper's servants, asked that the croaky bitch be removed from stage. Hearing this, the croaky bitch protested most strongly that she should not be; the officers averred that she should; and the soldiers, disappointed, started some songs of their own. The innkeeper, sighing, decided to reconsider his choice in musical troupes. Perhaps from the North, far North, once those slant-eared man eaters were driven out at pike-point. Then, there would be feasting again…

Well, I must say that I reckoned my impression of the tenor of the "Larks on the Wing" to be entirely sufficient, even for soldiers of the Royal Guard. Their officers, being (as I thought bitterly to myself) a bunch of decadent, chinless, hawing asses, had no appreciation of talent. Certainly not in _military_ matters-or, at least, not in the superb counter-battery fire I unleashed once they started throwing rotten fruit. Still, my plan at inconspicuous entrance was, really, not going quite to plan. And to think, just a few days ago, I would have dreamed of even rotten fruit, but this wasn't a good line of thought to follow, so I stamped it out and returned to the mission.

The rush matting off the inn floor was, despite the healthy sprinkling of rose petals and herbs, stinking. I was glad of it, for it made my task that much easier. For the King's Dearest Daughter, I guessed, would most likely not be. On the other hand, I had also guessed that more than a few of the manly soldiers would have donned perfume for the occasion; so, that was where the letter came in.

The singer, having exhausted her ready stocks of ammunition, jumped from the table serving as a stage, a long jump, right towards the old lady in the middle of the room. "Sorry, so sorry," she stuttered out in a most unmusical manner, "Grandam…"

… _Olivieda, pronounced I don't much care, but she's used to it. A contact of mine, Surdan. Good things to have, when the army's made off with half of our brightest to suck the lives out of convicts, or however it is they wish to win the war with minimal acceptable losses. What you shall do next, is…_

To my immense relief, she made a disappointed shake of the head at my accent. Northern singers, even those who had in fact learned all the tongues of men and most of those of elves (the one to use when honest, and the one to use when telling half-truths), would not speak The Tongues perfectly, but instead sing them out in the most complimentary manner possible. "It's guttural, girl, guttural, though Gods know you were bad enough on Alf Caxton's wormwood, and-"

The corporal of Morzan's Own Regiment whose socks were being sewn nodded, and was told by Grandam Olivieda to fake away off. Him, being a city man who knew her of old, obeyed hurriedly. "Not finished yet. And whatever's the matter, my dear? I'm out of pipeleaf, if that's what you want, and it probably is looking at your voice. The King pays better than you do."

_The little you know_, the singer thought to herself, but restrained herself to remarking that, after the rigours of her performance-a derisive snort-she did need a good lie down, and that Grandam Olivieda, a distinguished resident of the place, would know which room was best.

"Well, for a paying customer, second floor-yes, we do have two floors-the door opposite the stairs. It's a drafty dormitory, right enough, but has a new source of hot air."

"A fire, of course?"

"A good red one, yes. Now, go."

Well, not quite perfect code words, but close enough. And-

"I'm old, not deaf. Now, go."

So, they still had them then, no matter what Montiock said. Mind readers for the masses. On that cheerful note, I groped for the stairs, allowed a tomato (very flush, this establishment-now that Aroughs was gone, southern fruits like that were getting rare) to splat into the back of my dress, and staggered up.

What was I expecting, then, when meeting the King's Dearest Daughter? I had a name, which I very much doubted she'd use. In this, I was quite right.

"Why, you must be from the Hand!" the voice thundered into my mind as I slowly, silently, finished picking the door's lock and slowly levered it open.

I am not, I confess, immune to vanity. And, especially, not before the King's Dearest Daughter, meaning that I in mind a dozen plans (at least) of introducing myself to her. I gave her a glimpse of the singer-before moulding myself, ostentatiously, into a face of unsurpassable raven-haired beauty, black tresses (ravens are brown, I know, but stay with this please) flowing down my curvaceous form with its eyes like a verdant forest, (not Du Weldenvarden of course, or the great woods in the Spine, because both of those are anathema to The Throne, but some non specific verdant forest), hinting at ancient and highly significant worries, with more than a hint of a dark past glimmering somewhere. This is more than I've ever been able to extract from anyone at a glance, some spy I am. Or, indeed, a verdant forest, some woodsman I am.

The unsurpassable raven-haired beauty then gracefully sank into a chair, praying to herself that she wouldn't collapse from the effort of magic, or show a hint of the preparation it had taken, and only then did she conclude her performance (with the punchline "I am now"), and take a look at what was in the room.

A dormitory, as far as I could make out. As Oliv-however-you-pronounced-it had said. Beds on either side, perhaps six of them. A flickering candle of- finest beeswax, of all things, and perfume. A table. Two chairs, both occupied, by me, and by...

'My lady Margaret,' I said-physically, but quietly. I made a sort of shuffle in the chair, which I hoped would suffice as a curtsey.

'Oh, we h-aren't standin' on ceremony, you know! Or sittin' on it, even!' Again, it was her speaking through minds, a wave that crashed against my temples near constantly.

The mind, I often find, matches the matter. The mind was loud, expansive, eager, the tone equivalent of a man, upon first meeting you, kissing you on the cheeks and mangling your hand to pulp. The person opposite-Lady Margaret Fitz-Galbatorix, the eighth of that name- was, as far as could be told in that wretched light, entirely fitting. Most of it was hidden by a voluminous black cloak, the sort of thing that no one in the lower orders would ever wear, especially the normal patrons of the _Cat's Cauldron_-dye was expensive, even in Uru'baen. Nor, indeed, for stealth work; the risks of tripping over the hem when trying to run would be too great. In fact, I could only think of one sort of person who would wear such a thing-a member of His Majesty's Black Hand. Thrust out of the hood (now lowered) was Lady Margaret's face. Red hair (it _would_, I remember thinking, be red hair) exploding in every direction. The skin was healthy-not ruddy, but the sort of thing earned by frequent, vigorous exercise-ridin', swordin' and joustin', most likely. (Not sitting in a dank cell, extracting a confession.) The face-small mouth, wide forehead, graceful nose, and eyes as grey as glass; even more transparent. They were now-and I hate the cliché, but it's the only term that comes to mind-sparkling with delight. And a dash, just a dash, of magical power. Or-something, of that sort, but what exactly…

'The very same.' She now lapsed into a rolling roar which for her approximated normal speech. She glanced at me significantly, leaning forward. 'Don't you think that we should be a little… quieter?'

'I would like it of all things.' If anyone was out there to kill us, here, in Uru'baen, in an inn full of Royal Guardsmen, and hadn't already noticed the magical yells and a certain singer's exit, stage left, then they would be a pretty feeble sort of assassin. But still, a good habit to get in to.

'Righto.' Our mental defences ground into life. Her own did so immediately; mine sort of sputtered, and-

'Do you have any wine?' I kept my features blank. The inscrutable secret agent. Not someone who had just fled from a military disaster and botched her entrance, no ma'm.

'Wine?' she blinked, and immediately started reaching through her cloak. I caught the glint of steel there as she did so-a throwing knife, perhaps. Then I saw a jewel just above it. No, a sword. Ye Gods, but if she was what I feared most…

'I have ridden far, and the thirst-'

'But of course! From the King's own Kitchens.' She dragged out a wineskin. 'Do you want chicken with that? Pandemain-white bread? Apples?'

'All from the King's own Kitchens?' She nodded vigorously. 'Stolen?' Another nod, slightly bashful, with a flicker of a smile. 'Was there any need for the theft?'

'Need?' she asked. Need to steal food? Imagine!

I poured out a cup of wine, and drained it in one. It was nectar, pure sweet nectar, but I had little time to savour it. 'Why, then, did you steal it?'

'A lark, really.'

Ah. I would have loved, very much, to probe her mind at that point, for there was a brief-ever so brief-hesitation before answering. Her eyes had twitched slightly-ever so slightly. She was hiding something. But probing the mind of a royal bastard was a risky business. If nothing else, I wasn't sure if I had the strength.

I carried on, conversationally. 'Spying is not "a lark".' The sort of platitude that, I guessed, would set her off.

She shook her head firmly. 'I never thought it was. They train you _ever _so hard, and the Black Hand has fought for _ever _so long against the Varden…' Her voice was starting to rise, so I cut in. A habit to get her out of.

'Much of it, I hope you realise, is not fighting. Or dying. Or even running. Just… simple work. Very dull. Not all that noble, at all.'

She nodded. 'I am ready.'

'Why, though?'

'Prepared to do whatever it takes- why I wanted to do this, you mean?' Under the table, I had a tablet and stylus ready. I also had, concealed in my sleeve, a blade. 'Well-' I watched her intently- 'to do my duty as an Imperial citizen, to defend my country.'

This could easily be served by being married off to some powerful, vigorous, dashingly handsome but potentially treasonous nobleman. Besides, there were various loopholes that a noblewoman could easily exploit without taking the black. 'Any other reasons?' I asked, levelly.

'Well-' A twitch of the eyes, a pause.

'We have to know.'

'Right, but it sounds silly.' It sounded like she had been preparing for it for years. 'For too long now, I have sat, and digested, the fruits of my country-of my father's labours. I rode on his horses, ate his food, smiled and gabbled with his nobles. But now, the Empire needs its people, and I felt it time to do it some good, and repay my father.' Not, I noticed, her mother. Another mystery. 'As for the Black Hand-' She took a breath, and again. All rushing out. My hand started to move towards the blade. 'I was always the girl who wanted to _do _things. I'm sure you understand. The Chaps donned their armour, took their lances and rode to war. The girls didn't. I had no wish to spend the war tied to some nobleman's estate, nor to a field hospital. And I had some… well, experience…'

'Stealing food?' For no purpose.

'Yes, that sort of thing. Anyway-'

'That sort of thing?'

'Oh-silly things. Games. Ah-you must know the sort of thing I mean, you must-'

I did, but had never played them. 'Tokens of affection, apples from orchards, keep your voice down, false love letters. All very…' I wracked my brains for the playwright 'Rabelsian.'

She looked at me oddly. Damn, got the reference wrong. Few songs in those plays. 'Yes. That sort of thing.' I believed her. 'I am also proficient with sword, bow and spell, and have rode since I was seven, and...'

Still, she could easily be spying on us.

'So, you wish to assist the Black Hand. Stealing in childrens' games and lying to the servants-'

'Won't get me far, I know. This is why you must help me! That trick you did there, now, when you entered. Damn fine, damn fine. Magic, I expect?' No, I wanted to say, a bout of plague. Rapid recovery. 'You change your body, looks very hard, but I'm sure you can all do it. Monty didn't tell me, but Monty never told me everything.'

'Monty?' I asked, incredulously.

'Montiock, servant fellow I have. Monty and Murty, ha!' She smiled to herself, and carried on. 'He _may_ have once served them himself-nothing important, just once or twice-and he _knows_ things, you understand...'

'I'm sure he does.' This was, I told myself, not uncharacteristic of him.

'Well-I'm sure we can call upon him if needs be. So,' she smiled, 'you are to assist me. Or I am to assist you. Truth be told, I'm not certain how this all works, but I'll do what I can.'

I had considered this, long and hard, curled in a little ball on the floor of my apartment. I was sure that Montiock's highly robust style of teaching, involving as it did beatings, poisonings (for failing to use the correct antidote), and exceptionally long hours, would not be suitable for royalty. On the other hand, Montiock had stressed that, on balance, having her in the Black Hand for any length of time would be a liability. So-dissuading her would be best. And how better to dissuade her, I had concluded (unrolling and bouncing to my feet) than by showing her some of the work we did. Nothing that important, nothing which required that much training. Just tedious work. And I had just the assignment in mind…

'I'm sure you will. First, we'll go to my rooms for the night.' I said my rooms, I meant one of the Black Hand's various little houses, dotted across the city. 'Then, tomorrow, we start work. Refugees are pouring in from the South, and someone has to interrogate them. Meaning us.' In their hundreds and starved, ill-shod, mumbling thousands, doubtless all bringing up bad memories for me. But it would have to be done.

'Interrogate meaning-torture?' her eyes widened, and she recoiled.

'We shall see.' Meaning usually not. Simply dribbling bread and wine into them usually gave us more than enough information. 'We shall see. Nothing beyond our capabilities. Sit, watch, and take note.' And, if the worst came to the worst, contribute magical power. I wasn't expecting many defended minds in there, or many defended minds who had the will to resist, but if the worst came to the worst…

'Right.' Another vigorous nod. 'No Murtys among 'em, I hope!'

By the Forsworn, I thought to myself, but she couldn't mean… but no, she probably did. 'Murty?'

She beamed. '_The _Murty. Murtagh Morzansson. Quite the gallant, you know. Meet him from time to time, always very cheerful, gives-' she stopped, suddenly. Evidently, she thought she'd said too much. Well, I'd learn soon enough. That anyone could remain cheerful after watching their dragon being spitted on some one-armed barbarian's rabbit trap and collapse into a muddy field, though, was… curious.

'I see.' Night had fallen outside. 'Well…'

A knock on the door.

We both jumped to our feet. I turned to face it, and stood, eyeing it levelly. 'Who goes?' I called, only to hear a scrape of steel behind me. I spun about, and saw Margaret standing right by me, sword drawn. I gestured frantically at her, trying to make her put the damn fool thing down-last thing we wanted was the constabulary descending in on us. Or the Guardsmen.

No answer. 'Who goes there?'

The door opened, quite suddenly. I'd locked it, making this an unsavoury surprise-but it was only Oliv-something. I could see her, candle in hand, hunched.

Then I saw there was no candle. Just a flame.

I reached for my single-stick, tucked in under my skirts. 'Visitors for you,' she hissed, and then 'I serve the King' in the Ancient Language.

'Visitors?' I asked. I could see Margaret's grip on the sword tightening. The ceiling was low, forcing her to stoop. I realised, suddenly, that she was very, very tall.

'The Varden sort. Downstairs. Those officers.'

I cast my mind back. That bunch of Guard officers, haw-hawing away after venturing into the tavern. Why did they arrive late? 'Proof?'

'I found it. Power in their minds. They hide it well, but I better.' A smile. 'Not much. But enough.'

'To… _kill _us?' Margaret, the King's Dearest Daughter, was hopping on the balls of her feet, eyes darting about. Damn her, but she seemed to be enjoying this. Damn her. Terrible thing in a spy.

'Perhaps. Couldn't tell who sent them, but they're there, and-' the sound of boots on the stairs. Military boots.

'Sorry, chaps,' a voice was drawling, 'so sorry, Atken-Martland here-yes, Atty-Marty, you know-can't take the wine, so we're off to find a chamberpot. Nyes, ha-ha. Now, behave, you fellows, do.'

The stairs were not a long, neither was the corridor towards us. We had to act now. And I was in charge. Damn. 'Right. Margaret, check the window. See if we can jump it-'

'Narrow alley down there, with floors of stone. I could do it, once. But not now.' The old woman shrugged. 'I only trained to read minds. And I fear that you can't, either. Not in your state.' Olive took a breath, and filled her lungs. 'Last resort, scream. You'll learn that.'

I had the single-stick out, and took up a position by the door. Fight or flight? Margaret turned, and tried to get to the guard position-but her sword stuck in the roof. She tugged, swearing. Terrible thing for close work in a low room, a long sword, especially if you've never used it outside the practice-field. 'How many?' I tried to think. Two, at least. 'Three,' the old woman mumbled. 'Three, yes…' And, as I watched, her eyes rolled into her head, and she collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

So, magic messaging was a risk. Fight? Possibly, but if they could overwhelm her… Margaret was standing, eyes saucer-wide.

'Right.' Tramp, tramp, tramp… Something struck me. 'Margaret, d'you have any royal seal, anything?'

She shook her head. 'Incognito,' she said. Damn! If the Guardsmen heard battle, they would probably intervene (if they heard battle), but what happened next. 'Right. Flight then. Can you carry us to the alley?'

She nodded. I could sense the magic building up, tensed my defences, and too late saw that the magic wasn't all my own-or hers', but…

A shadow fell in the doorway. 'Your servant, ma'm,' a voice said, and the world exploded. Magic! A great bolt of something crashed through the room, a wind that didn't even rattle the shutters, but gouged into our mind. I staggered, already weary, blinked, how DO they do it? Caught a glimpse of Margaret, legs braced and jaw clenched, heaving at her sword, and pressed-heard something. A word, in a delicious Surdan accent. _Go._ Which meant they were coming, I dimly acknowledged, and prayed they didn't have my position, for I could now get in a blow of my own…

A boot stamped forward, a figure poked through the doorway, and I lashed out with the single-stick for all I could. The man had looked _left_, fearing something behind the door, but I was to the _right, _back against the wall, and the blow cracked up into something bony. I felt the pressure slacken off on my mind, and saw a man, taller than I and in a magnificent red coat, staggering back; the blow had struck his throat. Only or an instant-then I darted out, running for the window. Vaulted the table. Heard a curse, someone being pushed aside, the thunder of feet. Only a couple of yards-

Margaret tore the sword down, set her feet perfectly, and shouted-something. A warning. I pushed past, crashed the shutters open. 'NOW!' I cried. 'Now!' But no magic came to help us. Just another blow at my mind, softer than the first, perhaps-if 'soft' means 'searing agony'. I blinked, hissed, and poked my head out below. 'NOW, DAMN YOUR EYES, NOW-' And then I saw why. A nondescript fellow, in a ragged old cloak, standing below the window, looking up at us. No weapon. Just watching.

This scared me more than anything else, for a brief, very brief time, until I heard something swinging through the air behind me. I turned on my back leg and brought up the single-stick. A knife, with a man's red-coated arm gripping it, but it was blocked. Just. He was stronger than I was, and hadn't starved recently. He, I noticed dimly, had a forked brown beard, and his regulation sword at his side; but he didn't draw it. He drew back with his dagger, and swung lightly back as I went for his head with the cudgel. Yes, he missed the weapon, and blocked the knee I directed at his groin with a thigh, but not the left fist into his belly. Being a shapechanger means many wonderful things, including ambidexterity. But he didn't double over-just staggered, blinked, and spat at my face. He would have swung again-but ducked. We both ducked, for Margaret had ground into action.

She was a strong swordsman, just as she was a strong mage. From what little mage-sight I had, I could tell that she was struggling in mind against both of their efforts, and damn me if she wasn't actually gaining ground. In body-everything about her, hair, cloak, blade, flailed about. Her opponent was a short, wiry man, with a pair of daggers, and he was being forced back. She was ungainly, obviously unusued to fighting indoors, but her sword tore about the room in a deadly whirlwind. He parried a blow with a dagger, but the cheap steel shattered beneath the blade's force. It wouldn't last. She would keep him off for a while (seconds, perhaps), and either she would get lucky and hit her opponent or, more likely, she would tire.

But there were guardsmen below, and I would prefer one of them alive. I filled my lungs, prepared to shout-and my opponent, seeing the opening, jumped at me. I instinctively lashed out. The blow almost worked. Almost. I almost connected with his knife hand, almost shattered the elbow, almost battered him down into a weeping, sobbing wreck as a result. But did not. The blade slashed into my hand as the stick caught him in the shoulder-but he spun on his foot, and his boot crunched into my ribs…

There was a flash. And pain. Disconnected, entirely. _That_ had me screaming, though. I dimily remember falling against the window, something had broken, oh… _"BASTARD! OH, YOU FUCKER, YOU…" _Magic clamped the shouting shut, but another scream followed. I groaned to myself, pain, ah ye gods, and saw a man nailed to a wall. Oh, how surreal, am I seeing things as death comes, but the nail was a sword, and was being wrenched at furiously by a tall woman of great beauty and height and beauty, blood spattering her face, and BASTARD was bending over me, knife out. I gasped at the pain, and gripped his arm, gritted my teeth, and pushed. He strained at his knife hand, trying to force it down, but took my left to his face. His head whipped up, and I started gouging at it with my fingers, trying to find eyes. Bloodshot eyes, a shade of hazel, I could tell even in this light, a father's eyes perhaps. His other hand grabbed my arm, and there we lay, close as lovers and struggling manically. I could feel his vile weight on me, feel his breath, the wine on it, the perfume under his arms. I tried to butt my head at him-

But white, terrible pain once again consumed me, deep in my belly. As darkness took me, I remember thinking _Fuck. Second knife, somewhere._ Deeply unprofound, but that's how it was…

And gasping awake, a second-a year, perhaps-later.

Darkness, and hot tea. Those were my first impressions, and the second was far better than the first. "A nice hot cup of tea," said a voice. Cheerful. Perhaps too cheerful. "Always improves matters."

I choked, and the tea stopped, replaced by light. Proper candlelight, and it was the perfume I think that brought me back to reality. "What?" Memories started to flood back.

A figure loomed over me; it took a moment to recognise it as Margaret. "My nurse always said that tea was for the best, as did my maid in waiting." A laugh.

"What happened?" I groped about. I was on a cloak, and beneath that were cobblestones. On the road, somewhere. Or the city streets.

"Well, I healed you! Not just with tea, either, and I'm fagged out as a result. As for the fight? Ran one through, dragged the other off you, cried for help but they had some warding around the room, and…" I couldn't see any of her face in the darkness. Perhaps for the best.

"The man you dragged off me fought back?"

"Yes," she said simply.

"And you had no weapon?"

"No weapon."

With her hands, then. Or magic. Killed him. I wanted to inquire, but knew that it would not be for the best. The way she raised her hands before her, and that water was dripping off them, said enough.

I thought for a moment. "I suppose," I said, "a cracked rib must have stabbed into one of my organs."

That was what she supposed, yes.

"Thank you for the healing." Nothing much else to say about that. "Thank you very much." It sounded wooden, but I wasn't poetic just then.

"You're welcome." Margaret took a breath, and carried on. "Very welcome. So-after that, I recovered my sword" (good to know where her priorities lay), "healed the pair of you, and tried to heal the one you had… struck. But there was a queer flash behind his eyelids as I made to do so; he could not be revived." So, a third corpse. Some spies we were.

After that, she had levitated the lot of us out of the window, feeling it best not to get the Guard involved in this (some reason about 'secrecy'); the man down there seemed to have gone. She had then dragged us into an alleyway, terrified the life out of some hapless footpad with a flaming sword (subtlety, it seemed, came naturally to this one), and tried to heal us. She healed me, well enough. But she'd tried Oliveieda (she got the name right) first.

She indicated a little bundle propped up against the wall. "I… failed."

"It's… difficult, healing. Very difficult. Thank you for trying." No one would tell any of her children, or her grandchildren, what happened. She would be left there, until she was dumped into a grave pit, or else simply rotted away. Something in that would have disgusted me, before Aroughs.

"About an hour, you've been out." She took another long, shaky breath. "About an hour." And the fight couldn't have been more than twenty seconds or so.

"Have the tea. Tea is always for the best. Well done." Terrible spywork, I realised dully, but that was my fault more than anything else. Shouldn't have been so ostentatious, shouldn't have used the magic, made us stand out like anything, but I tried so hard to be a 'senior teacher'. But who was that man? "And now, what we'll do," I said, and grunted with frustration as I tried to stand. Every bone in my body seemed to ache somehow. "Now what we'll do, is get to a Black Hand house somewhere-no, they could be watched, get to some inn, lie low for the night, get to the Citadel tomorrow, deliver a report of the night's events, and return to work. Simple? Now, where exactly did you put me?" She offered me an arm, and I hauled myself up.

We left Olivieda lying there (we had to move quickly, no matter how many soulful glances Margaret sent), and found a hostelry. The _Morning Sun_. Not recommended, total lack of Night Watch activity as a result of one's escapades. It was only as we dropped off that she asked me for my name. "Millicent," was what she got. Not Anne, but palpably not Bohemonda. No one really does call me Anne.

The next day, just after dawn, a pair of bedraggled, weary figures were observed to be wondering towards the Uru'baen Citadel, one clad in a long, black, oddly stained cloak; the other in a recently cleaned, but somewhat torn dress. Both, strangely, were let in by the sentries, ahead of the great stinking columns of Southerners who stood, shivering in the weak autumn light, trying to gain Uru'baen citizenship; for, with citizenship, came work, and work meant food and no conscription. Beyond the citadel's great, iron wrought gate, they were met by a large, assorted group. The large figure in the black cloak was immediately dragged away by a horde of well dressed ladies; the small one in the dress received a rather different reception from a member of His Majesty's Black Hand.

Both, now unobserved by the world outside the Citadel, met again in mid morning, in a dingy stone hallway, lit by a single torch.

This time, though, the lady in the black cloak was accompanied by a third figure. I strained my eyes to look at him, blinking as a draught flooded torchsmoke into them. A man, tall, dark haired. That, I could make out after a while, for my gaze was first taken up by his clothes. His shoes were curled almost up to the knee, his doublet a violent shade of red with the twisting flame stitched across every last inch of it, his hat narrow brimmed but heavily feathered-but the sword worn at his side looked well used, and quite unlike a courtier's dress sword.

'It ain't good to speak poorly of the Black Hand,' Margaret hallooed down the tunnel, voice echoing loudly, 'but that fellow back there looked terribly angry when I went away.'

'Looks can be deceiving,' I replied, eyes narrowing at the man. 'But not this time.' "Monty" had not been impressed with my performance.

'Heard it from the belfry,' said the man, bowing slightly as he came closer.

'We did! Indeed we did! But-'

'And the dragonhold,' said the man.

I curtsied as low as anyone ever has, knees smashing into the floor. 'My Lord,' I said, knuckling my forehead for all I was worth, for unless I was much mistaken the Empire's greatest hope had just walked right up to me. When I had failed to keep the King's Dearest Daughter safe. 'I-'

'Ambushes,' Murtagh said, gesturing for me to rise, 'happen.'

But not, Margaret gushed as I rose, with Murtagh close by, for he was _so_ brave, and _so_ vigilant, and would keep her _quite_ safe, and indeed had done some _sneaking_ himself, before rejoining the King's fold, and was _so_ keen to learn about the Black Hand himself, and…

_The dragon, writhing in the filth. For the first time, an army struck dumb. And the city walls, crammed with citizens, eyes wide with shock, but not as wide as its mouth as it started to scream. Yes, such a vigilant, brave man he had been _then…

'But today's task doesn't sound too dangerous,' I said, producing a scroll from up my sleeve. I was now in full Black Hand robes, which are ideal for storing this sort of thing. No task could be too dangerous, in comparison to meeting Montiock's gaze after a failure and trying to explain yourself.

'The amount of times I've heard that,' Murtagh muttered. Margaret laughed. 

'The interrogation of refugees.' Simple, unarduous. A good sinecure for a pair of bungling operatives, as I had been informed at great volume and length. 'From the South. My Lord Murtagh has travelled in that area of late, and you presence and knowledge will doubtless be of the greatest use.'

I had heard that he had a common touch, but evidently not with His Majesty's Black Hand. Even one as lowborn as I. I didn't know what we had done to him, or indeed particularly want to. He nodded formally. 'It is an honour,' he said, 'to be of service. Especially as Margaret has brought provisions.' Stolen. From the kitchens. For no reason. But fine smelling all the same.

'Indeed.' But, still-why was the most politically unreliable man in the court, as well as the second most dangerous, being officially given the job of looking after the King's Dearest (although I doubted that Monty had ever meant that seriously) Daughter? 'But…' I was dressed in the uniform of the Black Hand, and Margaret had the sense to dress fairly soberly. The pair of us would look serious, a force to inspire fear and get information, especially as I affected a large, leather bag, of unconfirmed purpose, but which clinked whenever I touched it; you could hide an arsenal in there, which was the entire point. Murtagh, putting things bluntly, did not. Still-I couldn't tell a Dragon Rider how to dress, and well he knew it. 'Very well, my Lord, Margaret. The chambers of questions are this way…'

The interrogations went about as well as I expected. The room was small enough, a cell with Margaret and I sitting (Margaret volunteered as clerk, bless her), and Murtagh lounging in the back like a peacock's tail, smiling to himself. The first man in introduced himself as Roderick of Simston, a dyer, and, if it please m'lord, a purveyor of most fine and excellent ones. It did please m'lord Murtagh, who engaged him in discussion about it, with frequent reference to his own tastes, for half an hour until the Sergeant in charge of the guards suggested tentatively that it might be time to move on, there were thousands of them, see, a plague. ("Like locusts! Locusts, my lords!"). The second-a family, clustered around a grandfather, were hostlers; again, Murtagh had something to say, and they, seeking something familiar to discuss (the advantages of the Bellatona Colt over those of Gil'ead), and set Margaret laughing with reference to a story from his travelling days. ('Why, with Shade-I mean, with Shadrick of Plossup, I…'). Admittedly, he also gleaned some fragments of information about the state of the Surdan Horses, as far as they could tell; but precious little at that, for just as we were about to get to the General Upkeep and Health of their steeds, he whipped away into another digression. And on, and on, throughout the entire morning, with face after dull, lifeless face, grey as a stone wall and (thanks to Murtagh's counter attacks) as difficult to break. What made it worse was the small but determined cadre of 'career migrants'-workers who simply marched from city to city as the tides of trade changed, seeking jobs. They were wise old birds with leathery feet, who seemed to take delight in running rings around the Black Hand and conscription agents alike, and had nothing useful to say anyway. Their insolence was grating-but impossible to stop, with Murtagh snarking away.

'Just one more,' the Sergeant said, saluting and marching out. I sighed, glanced at the depressingly small pile of notes. About midday, but time had dragged on for far too long. Even Murtagh was tiring (the last one, a man called Eddard, had had much to ask about the location of his wife, Elizabette, works at a school, heard she came up to these parts, but little of actual use), Margaret looked fit to doze at times. But, still, appearances had to be kept up. I wiped by brow, ran my hand through the (much tangled and greasy) raven locks, and raised my hood once more, steepling my fingers on the desk.

'Send them in,' I said.

Another dark, greasy, travelworn southron, limping heavily and with a malformed arm. Very young. He stared around, in incomprehension-just like many of the yokels. His common was halting (not unknown among some of the more backwoods border-countrymen): 'Good… Good day, he said.'

The accent had me sitting bolt upright, because something in it jarred. Brought up memories from the march, from the siege, from… everything.

'Name?' I said.

'Ralph,' said his mouth, but his mind said something different. Something far more worthwhile.

_Lucius Cornelius Britannicus, formerly of the twenty-third Legion, First Cohort._

Physic: medicine.

Various loopholes: This is yet another thing that often gets left out of portrayals of the medieval world in fiction, including fantasy: the "positive" implications for women of an utterly patriarchal society.

Now, please, hear me out, because this is less ridiculous than it sounds, and I'm not going on about how women should be constantly protected from the cares of the world lest their silly little minds are driven to insanity or something (although, when witnessing Paris Hilton in action, one begins to wonder…) Think about it. If your culture considers women incapable of violence, then its laws could do the same. For example-in England, it was legally impossible for a woman to beat her husband, because… well, they just couldn't, because they were so self evidently weaker than men. There was literally no law against this total impossibility-and there is evidence to suggest that this sort of thing actually went on a fair bit. The greatest example of this was perhaps in the Maldon Riots of 1629, in which a large group of women stormed a Flemish merchant ship to seize grain; none of them were prosecuted, as none of them were adult males. Similarly, if a married couple turned to crime-and many did-then all a woman had to do to get off was to plead that she was obeying the orders of her husband.

In addition, a woman had some advantages due to the hierarchical feudal system of the middle ages. Noblewomen-women married to the aristocracy, and thus part of "those who fought" for the King-would receive many of the benefits of their class, but would mostly not be called upon to fight (perhaps a downside for the mass of rebel princesses who make up our heroines here.) They could inherit property in their own right, wear the expensive clothes prohibited by sumptuary laws to the lower orders, and the fact that they were of higher social status meant that they could often get their way with common and lesser nobles. This also applied to lower class women; women could continue the trade of their husbands after their deaths, and some got pretty wealthy out of it.

A sufficiently strong willed and/or lucky woman (like, say, the army of spunky, fundamentally indistinguishable noblewomen who inhabit at least sixty per cent of the Inheritance fandom's stories, and a great deal of those of other fandoms) could therefore get her way without going into colossal feminist rants the whole time. For an unlucky one, of course, life could be miserable, and I would understand her reluctance. But when I glance at yet another story about a relatively well set up young lady who balks at the merest prospect of marriage… that, I find difficult to accept. Consider all those girls today who long for their favourite pop stars, X-Factor winners, Murtaghs and so on to sweep them off their feet. Is it really so difficult for you to understand that, for a medieval noblewoman, the idea of marriage to a heroic, valiant knight of the realm (the idealised image of the Alagaesian nobleman) wouldn't be regarded as a patriachical hell without a second thought, or even an attempt to get to know him?

(There's also another, rather amusing advantage that I found which I can't openly spell out in this T rated story, but I will explain over PM for anyone who is interested. Suffice to say that, whilst a man was bound by the Sin of Onan, a woman was not and could, if all else failed, get some assistance in that regard from a midwife-as advocated by many prominent medieval doctors such as John Gaddesden.)

Moving on…

Pandemain: White bread.


	15. V: The Tower

There is a tower, in which a man believes himself to be waging a war.

It is a high tower, of harsh stone. It is not heated. And at the top of it is a pile of paper, and a pacing man.

The pacing man is tall, and gaunt, and his skin is bright white. As he paces, with a military posture difficult to maintain in his foreign robe, he dictates to the empty air

(for he had a secretary, but he has passed away)

and gesticulates, in the manner to which he is accustomed. His speech, roughened by years of commands and the cold air, sounds more than anything else like a monster's roar.

Half eaten meals are scattered about, and uneaten ones piled outside. But the true centrepiece of his lair are the papers. Piles of papers, tumbling into one another, disturbed by his passing, and connected by a ribcage of wax tablets. They have a good order, known to the pacing man alone

(for he had a secretary, but he has passed away)

and he scrawls into them. He had a neat hand, but it is sadly misused. A broken sword leans on his desk, a spine to a rack of tablets of figures.

But this man does not believe himself to wage war with words and figures. Yes, he drafts his orders, and throws them to the door. They may be obeyed. They may not. But he has a target.

He tilts his head, and growls. It comes out.

"When, O Great King, will you cease to abuse our patience…"

He grapples with his foe, and some servants, hearing him, wonder. For he has never been observed to sleep.

As he paces, his old military sandles have split. So he shuffles on regardless, waging war with the man of his dreams…

Ave readers. My apologies for my lateness. This November is National Novel Writing Month. Participants of this must write a novel of 50,000 words. I did it properly in 2008, and emerged with a steampunk cad eagerly awaiting part 2. For this month, although you should not expect 50,000 words, it is my intention to finish as many of my stories as possible. How this works with a dissertation on and an MA Creative Writing application to handle is anyone's guess. Anyway, here we are. Don't expect as much research (historical or canonical, as I don't have the Inheritance Cycle with me), or regard for literary craftsmanship. I'm simply trying to power through as much as possible, and make it as palatable as possible for the reader. So BIG ACTION SCENES and HIGH ADVENTURE rather than FOOTNOTES and LOGISTICS. Don't expect updates on a daily basis, but fairly close to it.

Which is probably how I should have been handling it from the start, but what can I say? I'm a historian.

Now lets do this.


	16. V: Eternal Rome

Eternal Rome

It was apparent that the Eternal Rome had gone under.

This, according to the Legionaries of the III Century, I Cohort, was blamed variously on the Emperor, the King of Alagaesia, the King of Surda, the King of the Elves, the Legate, the Tribunus Latisclavius commanding, the Lord Admiral of Surda, the Urgals, and the Jews. There was some degree of controversy over the latter group, for a section of the oldest veterans, all recruited from the same gods-forsaken patch of Italian dungheap, stalwartly claimed that Jews only lived in deserts, like Carthage, and thus couldn't possibly have had a hand in this disaster.

To confirm this, they turned to Medicus Cato, who sighed and stumped off, cuffing a seasick Centurion of the I Century out of the way as he did so ('Look, just breathe deeply, think of home and stop whinging. Most of my supplies were on the Roma, damn them'), searching for the Shipmaster.

Shipmaster Ragazzo was to be found, as always, leaning on the prow of his vessel with a wineskin in his hand. He turned as the Medicus approached. 'I was under the impression,' he shouted over the gale, 'that even Romans knew that the legs were for walking.'

Cato, right on cue, was torn from his feet as the world turned upside down. A barrage of noise pummeled his ears. 'Ah-' he crashed into the ship's railings, the wind knocked out of him, and made a note to make another libation to Neptune before this whole gods-forsaken voyage was ended.

He lay there for a time, dimly aware that he was in a state of shock (for a trained Medicus notices this sort of thing), before strong hands dragged him to his feet. He tore at his hipflask, prayed no seawater had leaked in, gulped it down, found it had, and choked. But he was up again.

'How much longer?' he roared at the shipmaster.

'YOU HEARD THE MAN!' The Medicus, recognising the voice, groaned. Pulcher. Damn.

Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher, Tribunus Latisclavius, supreme commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force, strode up the deck. He was in his full dress uniform, bronze musculata gleaming (soon to be rust, definitely), red cloak and the crest of his Attic helmet whipping in the gale. He retained his master's ability to cut a dash, one had to give him that. Backs seemed to stiffen at his passing, sickness became that bit less excessive, and all seemed more orderly. Until he tripped over that rope.

'YOU HEARD HIM-no, thank you Optio, I can get up you know' (he couldn't, as the ensuing fumbling proved) 'WHEN WILL THIS STORM CEASE?'

The Shipmaster spread his arms wide. 'Who can say? A few hours, at a guess. Winter storms can be treacherous.'

'But our mages have been at it for the past week!'

'Quite so. Step aside, please, there's about twenty men with a fresh spar. No, that side, not that side, damn lubbers, do you want me to hold you by the hand?' The Shipmaster, who was fast learning that the Romans were not by nature a seafaring race, especially not outside of their mythical Mare Nostrum (a hellish place, he had learned, without a tide or constellation worth mentioning), was naturally standing with an elegant poise. 'And do get up again, Medicus. Down is for the dying.' He reached into his pocket, and began to light a pipe.

The Tribune dragged himself to his feet with his vinestick, trying to brush his lank hair out of his eyes. 'What was on the Roma?' he began to say, before being firmly knocked onto the deck with a clang by the bosun and his work party. 'DAMN YOUR INSOL-oh, I see, my apologies. Keep up the good work. What was on the damned Roma?'

The Shipmaster looked at him pityingly. 'Four hundred labourers, on loan from the Worshipful Company of Masons, Aberon; eighty-five horses, heavy service; and-'

'Three out of four parts of my medical supplies. Including all my bandages. None of my casparii, but I suppose they'll have to work with leaves and bark.' Cato crumpled his hipflask, the one gifted to him by a fine lady of Alexandria, many years ago, and tossed it tossed it overboard. 'Damn!'

'And its crew. Seventy-four men, six women I'm not supposed to know about, and two cats. I did like the cats.' The Shipmaster, pipe lit against rain and thunder, took a puff. He smiled. 'And please, gentlemen, do not interrupt me. Adults are at work.' He turned back to the storm, and called for his telescope. 'It's your fault it went down, after all.'

The Tribune had been through this argument repeatedly. 'Look, it is not our fault that the captain chose to affix the Corvus. It was just on the _suggestion _of the Legate, that they…'

'Went and died in a fucking winter blow that a damned Surdan child would know about. Adults are at work. With any luck, they'll let you get your toys back on dry land, soldier boy.' The Shipmaster accepted his telescope from a dwarf, beard matted and blown to a mane, snapped it open with a theatrical air, and contemplated the waves.

'Not a good start, Cato.' Finally, properly to his feet, the Tribune shook himself like one of the dogs he hated, and turned to the deck.

'Don't do the histrionics now, this is important. We don't have any medicine! Once the Varden finger-wigglers run out of power, then it's gangrene or grave. By Hercules, this was an idiotic, unreasonable idea in the first place!'

'But we can do better.' Pulcher ignored the voice of reason. 'Soldiers! Where are we going?'

The reply came first, muted. 'Cloud-cuckooland,' some gentleman ranker opined.

'Where are we going?'

This time it was drowned out by a clap of thunder, but Pulcher knew what they had said.

'Vroengard! Vroengard! Vroengard!'

_Extract taken from _The Royal Chronicles of the Court of Surda, _Volume Eight. _

_On the final day of the fifteenth year of the reign of Our Lord King Orrin of Surda, a fleet of warships embarked from the Royal City. Its intention was the claiming of the Isle of Vroengard, home of the dragon-riders, in the name of Our Lord the King. Due to the recent hardships suffered upon his subjects by the Imperial armies-the slaughter of soldiers, the deflowering of virgins, the theft of cattle and sheep and crops of every kind, and innumerable other crimes, Our Lord the King had long yearned for some method of relieving their sorrows. _

_The method was revealed to him by Eragon Shadeslayer, the dragon rider. Eragon had returned from his journey north to study with the elves, and informed Our Lord the King, and his assembled allies, that a great source of magical power could be found on the Isle of Vroengard. He would therefore be travelling there. Eragon himself advocated going along, in secret. Others disagreed, fearing for the life of the rider, of the danger posed by Imperial agents. Captain-General Gydrynne and Publius Cassius Flaccus Legatus, in particular, entertained the possibility of taking more lands for the glory of Our Lord the King, and drawing the hordes of the Usurper away from the realm of Our Lord the King. They also believed that this would enable the remnants of the armies of Our Lord the King, of the Varden, King Orik and the assorted Urgals and Allies, to be mustered once more. In addition, a great victory would demonstrate the glory of Our Lord the King to his subjects, who felt a great misery and horror at the foes before them, even resisting the bailiffs and constables of their rightful lords as they gave them arms with which to fight. The knaves who refused were declared outlaw and soon dispatched, but these complaints continued, with a petition being presented to Our Lord the King on the eighth day of the eleventh month from the burghers of…_

_Many dozens of ships were assembled, to the number I believe of sixty-eight, from all ports of the realm, and sent forth. That this could be managed in such a mercifully brief period was due to the efforts of King Dagellion, Second of his Name, who had amassed a fleet of warships some fifty years previous with the intention of challenging the Usurper at sea, and had bade his Lords maintain a great facility to outfit ships of war. Notable amongst them were eight ships of the greatest size, of which two were given Roman names, _Roma Aeterna _and_ Pietas_ in honour of the achievements of the Romans, our great friends and allies. The third of these was named by the Lady Arya Drottingu _Domia Abr Wyrda _and was constructed, in the manner of the ships of the ancient men, to carry dragons into battle. In such a manner was the glory of ancient days restored during the reign of Our Lord the King, in defiance of the Usurper's army and state._

_Amongst the contingents of men at arms and knights going were the best troops of Our Lord the King and his allies. Three Cohorts of Romani, including their elite First Cohort, bereft of its eagle, and many great engines of war; the entirety of the Royal Surdan Guard (consisting of the Horse, the Red Foot, the Blue Foot, the Seaguard, and the Yeomanry); eight companies of Varden Footmen of various sizes and arms; a choir of Du Vrangr Gata; a band of elves; a clowder of cats; a throng of dwarves, under their King Orik himself; a great mass of labourers taken from the lands of the Lords of Dathred, Plowgite, Storello..._

_Of especial concern to the commander of this force, Tribunus Latisclavius Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher, aside from the was the potential presence of the Royal Navy around the isles of Vroengard. To reduce the threat, he bade the spymasters of Our Lord the King, and the Varden, and the cats, to seek out the Admiralty of the Usurper, and weaken it in whatever manner they deemed possible. They arrived at the plan of the codes used by the Admiralty as their mages spoke to one another. Obtaining these would be of the greatest advantage to the glory of Surda, and Our Lord the King…_

Glossary

Corvus: a bridge, attached to the front of a warship, designed for the boarding of an enemy vessel. Caused difficulties with handling warships at sea, and . Something of an anachronism by 100 AD, but Flaccus can hardly be seen as a modern Roman.

Cloud-cuckoo land: taken from the Aristophanes comedy 'the clouds'. I reckoned it wouldn't be unreasonable for someone from, or had served in Greece (or, indeed, Italy, or anywhere with lots of Roman aristocrats) to have picked up a few quotes.

So, what can I say but 'let battle commence'?

Apart from offering the greatest sympathy to my characters, and hoping that you read and review. I had other ideas to restart the story (jousting with gladiators, grimdark shenanigans involving guerrillas), but they dwindled away.


	17. V: A Conference

And so, with an audible creak, the plot lurches back to its other set of characters. Fun times.

A Conference

I looked across the table at Lucius Cornelius Britannicus, formerly of the twenty-third Legion, First Cohort. He glanced back, and then at his pack, and then back to me again, with quick eyes.

My fists clenched.

And I turned to Murtagh.

"We must confer," I said with my mind.

He nodded. We rose, Murtagh making a flamboyant bow, and we left the room under the wide gaze of the Roman.

"I'm glad we see things the same way, Annie old thing," Murtagh said. He stretched, groaned extravagantly, and touched his hat to a curious soldier. "Damn underground air. Need a break. Why not send Margaret up too? And the guards, and all the prisoners while we're about it."

"That prisoner. And do speak quietly, My Lord, there are ladies present."

"I don't think so. Southrons have long hair." But he did so, all the same. The soldiers were ours'. Black Hand man, sworn to secrecy. But it was best to be sure. Men who had been sworn to us had, the previous night, tried to kill me. I probed his mind, found defences.

"Not Southron. Roman."

"Quite."

"Plant?"

"From fate, perhaps."

"By the Wandering Path."

"Doubtful."

"They know we want to know how Romans fight, so they send us a man. He'll then tell us anything we want to know, and we'll take it as gospel."

"If the Varden wanted a man as a plant, then they wouldn't have sent a man from a regiment of foreign mercenaries who would desert at first sight, would they?" Murtagh planted both hands behind his back, thrust his head back, and commenced pacing. I followed, softly.

"Perhaps not. But in any case, it is best that we interrogate him. And best that we do not, my Lord Murtagh, treat him too roughly."

"He killed my dragon."

"He killed my city!"

"Your city?"

"I had lived there for many months. I regard it as such, yes. But we can't let him go to waste. What do the Varden want us to know?"

Murtagh stopped pacing, twisted. It was impossible to describe his motion, exaggerated as it was, as anything else. "Very well. Lets open him up then."

Together, we returned to the interrogation chamber.

"Did you two have an interesting conversation?" Margaret asked us; she was midway through giving the man a sip of her water. "It is most _parching_ at times and-." She stopped, at our expressions.

The man looked up at us, from when he sat. "I've been told to face death properly before," he said with a strange, hollow smile. "And I've seen your type before." He tapped his mangled arm.

I had spoken the words before, and prepared to say the old formula again. But so, it seemed, had Murtagh.

Or had them spoken at him.

"A complication," he said, his eyes hard, "has arisen. Please accompany with us. You will be given accommodation fitting to your station."

I probed his mind, found a wall of iron.

"Your case will be dealt with," Murtagh continued, "in a manner fitting to your station."

He handled the hilt of his one and a half hand sword.

The Roman was close to tears, I could tell from his mind. His adam's apple bobbed in his scrawny, unshaven throat.

"And if the King sees fit in his justice, in his wisdom, in his mercy, you will be granted a trial, and such defence as you can summon to your aid." Murtagh offered his hand, and I also. They were not friendly hands.

"Right." The Roman made the same, hollow smile. "I suppose that's a jury, then?"

Neither of us being familiar with the term, he allowed himself to be led out. I sent a brief message into Margaret's mind, reminding her to tell the guards that interrogation was ended for today, and that we, the three of us, would be required elsewhere.

I felt a numbness in her mind as I sent it. I was gratified, in a strange way, to find that it was not being wiped away by hard certainty, as I had seen with so many other agents, that it was for the common good or greater cause. Master spy she may not be, but she could be something else. A good person.

Over the next two weeks, we-which is to say, Murtagh, myself, and Margaret-learned much of L. Cornelius Britannicus.

We found that he was from an island called Britannia, which is cold and wet and filled with tin. Even the Romans, from their strange, bare land, hated it.

We found that he had a daughter, Cornelia, who had learned a language called Greek, which she laughed in, and made naughty poems. This was, for Britannicus, a source of rueful pride.

We found that he, a soldier, was not meant to have a daughter, and the punishment he faced should this be revealed.

We found that he served an Empire ruled by a First Citizen, a country of many countries whose mission was to humble the proud (this expressed with great pomp and circumstance.)

We saw its claims to peace, the defence of justice and prosperity, and the ranks of men strung up on crosses by roadsides which assured it.

(By the end of _that_ evening, I confess, I was shaking. I then instructed Margaret to look into the Roman's mind. This was our enemy. This was evil. He had to be fought. I had first ordered clemency. Then I had seen, repeatedly, what he stood for, what he fought for, and what he had done. My attitude changed.)

We saw cities of coloured marble, and hillsides of primitive farms, and a thousand Haradacs of desert, and fate and forsworn alone knows how much else he had marched across on those endless, grinding roads. We saw forts, and factories of arms, and families. So many of their straggling, ancient families, with their ugly, bony fathers at the head and demure women spinning wool. Some crammed together in one apartment or hut, others in their vast, square mansions, which managed to be simultaneously poky little caves and airy expanses of sun and glory.

We saw, ultimately, a column of Varden soldiers, in their heavy armour and dirty hose, marching off to their ships for a raid, judging from road signs and marching songs, on Kuasta, to be conducted by ship.

We saw these, and all sorts of other things, and every detail was copied down.

We did not treat him gently, I fear. Well, there was no fear about it. The Romans used a volunteer army, and this man had signed up gleefully. He had then killed many, so many, Royal soldiers, with his quaint little short sword and javelin. We set to him with our barbed minds and thumbscrews, and I like to think that by the end he had been, at least somewhat, repaid for his crimes.

We did our work over a period of two weeks, during which much else happened which will be detailed in due course. We kept the soldier awake, continually, in order to sap his resolve. It is not a flashy technique, but it is (by my estimation) more effective than all the racks in the Empire. We kept him in a windowless dungeon, let the heat of the day keep him up, and worked on him at irregular intervals; but rarely more than twice per day.

I asked, at one evening-I forget which- whether Margaret had conducted the conventional procedure and interrogated him mentally. She had not, she said; she thought we had done enough. I chastised her for her foolishness. In the Royal Palace, of all places, she had no excuse-no wandering minds to ensnare her-not to practice her talents, and she was a far stronger mage than I.

In between times, we set to work. There was much to be done. I instructed Margaret, if she felt up to the job, to ask the Royal Guard whether any of their uniforms-or soldiers-had gone missing recently, and to pursue any rumours she found. It may seem strange that I sent the King's daughter on a quest for her own killers. However, I reasoned that the Guardsmen would be more open towards a princess of the blood, and that it would attract less suspicion, than a random kitchen girl or black hand agent doing the same. I then languidly requested hot chocolate-the latest delicacy, from where I know not-and considered the task at hand.

I was, for much of my time in the Capital's higher places, the daughter of a baroness: the Lady Constance Dalming. They were, needless to say, extinct, but so obscure and northern that no one here would notice. We had retired to our seat in Town due to the present climate (the polite way for 'fleeing a horde of angry elves', and one which would explain the lack of servants and status.) We were, as such, conducting many of our meetings whilst embroidering together. Neither of us were especially skilled. She did the same boxy dragon repeatedly, dagged through with twisting fire; this was pronounced excellent by a maid passing through. The said maid soon left with curses following. As other personas, Bohemonda in particular, had sewed and embroidered quite beautifully. Dalming, I decided, was a northerner, and thus unfamiliar with the womanly arts. She and I got on famously.

We sang at those meetings also-a little. She had a fine, full voice, and was delighted to display it. I did not. I would have loved to possess one, and dreamed of it in my younger days when I was sustained by dreams alone, but it is my role to remain silent. When called upon to sing, I did so hoarsely, and was scarcely audible above the needlework.

What came out of the first of these meetings, on those bright, clear mornings, was my own task. I would research the man who had stood under the window.

I dreaded the task, but only how a washerwoman dreads the smallclothes of a nursery. Tedious, fruitless labour.

But it seemed so simple,then…


End file.
